Their Journey
by driftinginclouds
Summary: Two seemingly different souls collide, causing a most unexpected unison that none— even them —had expected to form. A story of adventure, redemption, and most of all of love. Harry/Bellatrix. Set during Half-Blood Prince and onwards. AU. Warning: Could go kind of darkish. Update: Ratings changed to M! Also, chapters will be edited on whim (but no major changes in plot).
1. Becoming Human

**Chapter 1: Becoming Human**

One minute Bellatrix had had the upper hand, and in the next she was cowering. Her eyes, dark like coal, were now wide with fear while her body was in a pathetic form, as she begged the Dark Lord to forgive her for her failure. Then, she watched the Dark Lord as he narrowed his scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes, and spoke: "Be quiet, Bella," he said dangerously, and though his tone had been full of spite, his composure had been utterly calm. "I shall deal with you in a moment," he continued. "Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling apologies?"

Her ebony eyes slowly downcasted in humiliation, and she viewed the marble floor; it was so cold, cold and icy like her every bone. Then, through the freight that shackled her five senses, she managed to somehow recall a fact of vital importance. Almost instantly, her gaze was lifted off the ground, and a thin voice, amazingly hers, managed to escape from her parched lips: But Master—he is here—he is below—"

And her warning was left ignored.

Bellatrix immediately felt a fool, for the Dark Lord was the cleverest man she knew; and thusly, she should have not assumed he was not aware of Dumbledore's presence. Oh, what a great mistake she had made! Bursts of self-criticism rolled through her mind—they always did when she erred. Clenching her tattered gown with her pale—once soft but now calloused—fingers, she wished to drown into the ground below, turn into oblivion, for never before had she failed her Lord so greatly. Her chest felt heavy—so heavy—and most startlingly, she yearned to cry but could not, as it was a human reaction she had forgotten long ago—

_Thump… Thump… Thump…_

She glanced up, and her pupils focused as she watched the spectacle before her: Horrified, she found the once still statue of the witch heading towards her. Hastily, she grasped her wand, lifted herself off the ground, and began to incant curse after curse, spell after spell, but all her efforts bounced off the statue. Hence, she arrived to the blatant conclusion that all her exertions had died in vain, and so she took a step back, another, and finally let out a gasp when the statue dived towards her. In just a flash, her head had thudded against the cold ground, and was now pounding with pain, while the statue of the witch persisted to pin her down, unrelenting. A wet substance then dribbled down her forehead – _blood_—while from the corner of her eyes she viewed the Dark Lord experience defeat… it seemed Dumbledore had won the duel.

"Master!' she sobbed, and her voice had not at all sounded like hers.

She then blinked. Blinked again. Her surroundings were beginning to blur. Upon realizing she was floating from consciousness to unconsciousness, Bellatrix tried best to remain aware, but her efforts were futile, for unconsciousness soon won.

Meanwhile, a certain young man, Harry Potter to be precise, found a worried and frightened look settle over his headmaster's face. He was unaware that the bearded man was not only frightened for him, but also for the unconscious witch pinned against the ground. Before Harry could further ponder over the headmaster's expression, excruciable pain strangled him – pain so crushing he yearned for death, as long as it halted…

Then, the pain suddenly fleeted…

Perspiration had lathered on his forehead while he now tried best to hold onto his strength, but though no longer in agony, though he had succeeded against succumbing to Voldemort's possession, Harry was far too exhausted to win against unconsciousness, and so he embraced it, blanking out like the infamous witch who lay flaccidly on the same cold, marble ground.

**oOo**

Bellatrix fluttered her dark lashes, opening her ebony eyes, and presently found herself in a completely white room. Four white walls encased her, and as most junctures like these were, there was no door and as a result, no escape.

Looking below, she inspected herself, finding no bruises or wounds. Well, at least her captors were not the sadistic kind… or maybe they were. Nonetheless, she found herself on a cozy mattress, and thought: Surely, this could not be hell—hell couldn't be this comfortable.

Her usual black robes had vanished and had been replaced by an attire much similar to those worn by patients submitted in St. Mungo's. Wait— _Was she at—?_

Suddenly she whimpered, and it wasn't often that Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black whimpered. A figure had Apparated into her room, and this certain individual sported a long white beard, had equally long white hair, and his eyes were the bluest of blues, and they were sparkling as they looked through crescent-mooned lenses.

_Dumbledore._

Comprehension of what had happened abruptly dawned on her. The pain of the sudden thrust to the ground seemed to rekindle like a tendril of a ghost, to remind her that it had not at all been a dream. Consequently, she sneered as she watched the man bring a chair into existence from thin air, then place it by her bedside.

"Mrs. Lestrange," said Dumbledore in a warm voice, seating himself securely on the only object other than the bed in the room—in other words, the chair.

Bellatrix, naturally, did not respond and, naturally, tried to force as much disgust as she could into her eyes. Yet, Dumbledore continued to smile warmly at her, and so she stopped staring at him with revulsion, for she knew her efforts to offend him would be fruitless.

She grimaced.

Dumbledore did not utter a word, and during this quite elongated silence, he continued to smile cordially at her. Bellatrix, not one for waiting, hissed, "Well? Are we both dead? Did my Lord, at long last, get rid of you?"

The Headmaster began to chuckle, triggering even more ire to thunder through Bellatrix. "No child," he said. "We are not dead. I've kept you here, away from the Ministry for the time being,"—he paused, smiled again, then continued—"and I know this place is quite dreary, for that I apologize; nevertheless, you see, I've encapsulated you into this little cube-like object, using a spell few know of, in order to hide you from the Ministry. Meanwhile, they believe you have Disapparated from the scene with Voldemort."

It was odd hearing someone utter the Dark Lord's name, other than the Dark Lord himself.

She cringed internally at that.

Bellatrix then lifted an eyebrow after gaining some equilibrium, and asked, "_Why_? Why would _you_ wish to keep me away from the Ministry?"

Dumbledore frowned at this. "It is not my wish."

_Of course._

"Then whose?" Bellatrix probed, further baffled.

"Sirius," he answered after a moment's silence. "Sirius informed me that no matter what happened, I was to make sure you were not harmed. This is why he dueled with you, preventing any other member of the Order to duel you at the Ministry—so that, of course, no harm would come your way." A frown flashed on Dumbledore's face before he continued, "Naturally, when he went through the veil"—he chose his words cautiously—"other members of the Order who were unaware of Sirius's wish fought with you."

_Sirius_?

The last man she had killed had wanted her alive.

_But... __why_?

Accordingly, she looked at Dumbledore's warm blue eyes with her contrastingly, cold dark ones, and asked the aforementioned question: _"Why?"_

The Headmaster paused, then faintly smiled while sighing in. "Only you know the answer to that, child," he said—and him, referring to her as 'child' was most irritating, but Bellatrix had no time to linger on such thoughts…

She frowned at the fact that her confusion wasn't going to be subsided by him — a man who apparently knew all the answers. The perplexing situation was irking her. Why had Sirius wanted her alive—

"I must leave," she heard the headmaster.

She watched him, staring at him fixedly as he rose up from his seat. "Will I be here forever?" she asked. "The animagus Black wanted me alive and well. I will become"—she paused—" disturbed if I'm isolated like this for long." _Ha! Disturbed, _she internally laughed at herself ... as if she hadn't become _disturbed_ enough by her stay at Azkaban–

Her thoughts were intruded by Dumbledore's warm voice: "No, Mrs. Lestrange. I'm keeping you here briefly, until I am convinced that the time is ripe to reveal you to other members of the Order."

An elegant brow was raised. "And when _exactly _shall that be?"

"Ah, child... that is up to you," he responded with a grin, and then slightly surprised her as he vanished before her eyes with the chair that had derived out of nothingness.

Minutes passed.

Bellatrix inhaled deeply before sliding off her bed. Glancing about her surroundings, she came to comprehend that there was nothing she could kill time with. Perhaps this was a new for of torture set up by the ministry? Since, after all, they no longer kept dementors in Azkaban. She groaned, knowing that if she lingered here for long she would lose her sanity—well, at least lost the faint remnants of sanity she had somehow been able to protect in all her years alive—

It hadn't started in Azkaban. _No_, she had not begun to become deranged in Azkaban, it had occurred much before that—

Memories suddenly swept into her mind. Memories she had fought to keep locked, stored away, and never to evoke again.

A moan left her lips, as she suddenly collapsed onto the ground.

_Sirius had wished for her to be alive..._

"No," she mumbled, croaking. "_No—Bella," _she soothed herself with the nickname Narcissa and Andromeda had placed on her when they all had been naïve youngsters; and upon recalling the origin of her name she came to remember her disowned sister as well. It was as if, all those memories she had tried her best to store away and forget, came crashing down all at once...

Andromeda — her abusive father — her years at Hogwarts — her forced marriage to Rodolphus — the physical and emotional abuse she had suffered through because of him, and then the haven she had found under Voldemort. She was finally in control — she could do _anything _— her husband recoiled from her, he was afraid of her — he was _her _pawn just a mere few days after the Dark Mark had been etched on her arm – she was a better duelist than him, more useful to Voldemort, keener and more cunning — she was _better _and more useful not only from her husband, but _many_ in Voldemort's eyes…

She was no longer _valueless… _

A useless trophy wife that could be discarded with.

For, she had become Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black, Voldemort's closest lieutenant, synonymous with death.

But… did she really believe in Voldemort's apparent cause?

She didn't know.

_No_, she didn't know.

However, neither did she care, as the power she had been given due to supporting Voldemort was much more significant than believing in Voldemort's supposed cause. Besides, it was the same for many Death Eaters: Crabbe and Goyle, for example, were useless lackeys many had picked on and laughed at, but Voldemort had treated them with respect, had shown them they had their fair share of talent to contribute, and they in turn had wholeheartedly supported his cause — whatever it was, for Bellatrix didn't really know, especially after the day she had comprehended that Voldemort was in fact Tom Marvalo Riddle…

A half-blood.

Few knew of this truth, not even her fellow Death Eaters. She had stumbled on this startling discovery in Voldemort's private sanctuary, where she had come across his journal. Bellatrix had been disillusioned then and there, as from that second and onwards she knew Voldemort was a man who had nothing but hatred within his heart and a thirst for power. However, this hadn't at all disheartened her, and nor did she feel angry at the lies Voldemort had told them, as Bellatrix too was only made of hatred. The Dark Mark had given her a standing, it had given her power, and most importantly, it had helped free her from the clutches pureblood society had placed on her… Bellatrix was no longer a victim… just a—a _woman_, and only by supporting Voldemort could she ever attain such power. And thus, she had never mentioned her discovery of Voldemort's true identity to a single soul.

She tried to hush her thoughts, but they wouldn't come to a halt. One thought led to another — one memory led to another — until she began to feel a … peculiar and most frightening feeling creeping out from the shadows, a feeling that had laid still and dormant for years and years…

"No Bella—no stop—NO!"

And it had happened.

Guilt had come.

The memory of the pain etched on the faces of the Longbottoms, as she muttered Crucio after Crucio, had swarmed into her mind.

And she remembered the power she had felt while driving the couple into insanity, and then she recalled the _guilt_ she had felt as well. And then, she remembered how she had completely thrown the guilt into oblivion, as the Longbottoms had finally embraced madness…

However, now the _guilt_ had crept back, as she had remembered it — she had recovered it from the folds of her mind by mishap, and it _pained _her to feel it. It _pained _her in such a way that she could not breathe...

_Pop._

A figure Apparated into her surroundings, and a smile was plastered on this man's wrinkled, lined face. He stooped down beside Bellatrix, and gently moved her dark curls away from her equally dark eyes, which were wide in distress as memories blasted through her mind.

It was Dumbledore.

"So it worked," he mumbled. "I thought it would."

"_What_?" she hissed.

"My plan seemed to have run well," he responded.

"You—_your_ plan?" she stuttered, baffled, wondering what this old goat was rambling about.

"My plan to help you… to help you reclaim your humanity," he whispered, and he then caught her by surprise by incanting a spell that gently lifted her and plopped her onto her bed again.

_The audacity! _

However, to her surprise and to Dumbledore's, her anger had been short-lived. The rush of that human emotion she hadn't felt in so long — _guilt — _made her feel so alive.

_Alive_.

She hadn't felt that way in years.

Remarkably, a small tear dripped down her eyes, and splashed down onto her presently folded hands, and she recalled how she had forgotten how to cry.

It seemed she had remembered again.

_Sirius..._

Sirius had wished to keep her alive.

And she gradually began to understand...

_He knew. He knew why._

Slowly, she lifted her gaze up and stared at Dumbledore who now stood before her, smiling as usual with twinkling blue eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse: "Sirius knew?" she asked.

Dumbledore nodded dimly, and then neared her. He gently held out his hand, and hesitantly, she placed hers in his. "Yes. He knew," he whispered, and her surroundings then unexpectedly began to blur, as she Disapparated with the Headmaster out of the cube-like object she had been placed in.

* * *

Edited: June 17, 2013


	2. The Will Hearing

******Chapter 2: The Will Hearing**

A young male, who had just recently turned of sixteen years, lay entirely still in bed. His emerald eyes stared fixedly at the white ceiling above while his face harboured an entirely blank expression. This young man was none other than Harry Potter—renowned since infancy for somehow evading death from the most notorious dark wizard to have ever set foot in history—_Voldemort_. It was a feat no one else had ever accomplished; nevertheless, in the Muggle world, not one sentient being knew Harry Potter other than his horrendous Aunt, Uncle and swine of a cousin, Dudley, who all would rather not know him.

Recently, the headmaster of Hogwarts—in other words, Dumbledore—had informed him that he had been born with a certain destiny that entailed that he must save the world from this aforementioned notorious wizard. Harry had to get rid of this serpent-like man who had killed his parents, his loved ones, had brought so much turmoil and death to the Wizarding World and Muggle world alike (the latter whom were unaware of the atrocities he had committed)—but what's more, if Voldemort did on perish, then it would simply result in Harry's own death.

Thus, it wasn't as though Harry _truly_ had a choice, as he had no say in this; he had to kill Voldemort, whether he was up for the challenge or not. The gods, god, or whatever deity up there, or wherever the hell he – she – it was, had written this in his destiny. Perchance, Harry mused, he was their form of entertainment—he wouldn't be surprised if so were to be true.

A sigh escaped his lips. _Destiny—_this was him damn destiny, and if there were such a thing as destiny and all that bullocks, then freewill did not exist. All was already written and therefore, what if it had already been predetermined that he would perish in this battle with Voldemort? Then frankly, what was the point of even trying? Another sigh left his lips before he chucked away his thought, for he caught his dear owl, Hedwig's hoots in the distance.

Rising up from bed, he strode towards the window and found his owl flying towards him below the bright blue sky. It was such an awfully beautiful day outdoors, but Harry was not in the mood for the outdoors today—as how could he, when he had sort of been sentenced to death. He watched Hedwig's large, beautiful, white wings flap against her body, and he couldn't help but think of one word as he watched her: _Fly. _

Oh, he terribly missed his broom.

Once Hedwig had set herself atop his tattered dresser, she lifted her leg that was carrying various letters addressed to him from his friends; Harry's eyes, however, were staring at the owl's still leg, where the _Daily Prophet_ was attached. "Hedwig," he quickly whispered, "the other leg." Soon after, Harry had plopped down on his bed while clenching onto the newspaper firmly; so firmly his knuckled had turned nearly chalk white.

Emerald eyes gazed at the front picture solemnly. Within the picture, Harry found – _Lupin and Dumbledore? – _standing beside a witch who looked rather familiar. The two seemed to be shielding her from irksome journalists, and by Merlin, the scene within the picture revealed complete and utter chaos.

Harry quite assuredly knew who the woman was; however, if he had not gone to Dumbledore office and stumbled on a certain memory, he would have never know, for the woman within the picture was not the deranged looking Bellatrix Lestrange he had seen in the article during early January of the escapees from Azkaban, and in real life in the Department of Mysteries. This woman's hair was pleated in soft, shimmering curls that cascaded like flowing ebony jewels around her regal features. Quite honestly, she appeared healthy and her sunken face had recovered its youthfulness; intriguingly, her heavily-hooded (and most mysteries) eyes were lowered, for she was looking at the ground, her gaze unwavering.

_Is she… ashamed? No—No, of course not._

That would be absurd.

For Harry very well knew that this woman was the most loyal Death Eater, and Voldemort himself had proclaimed such. Then what? What about the frown her now (quite plump) lips had formed in the picture? By Mordred's smelly arse, Harry could not fathom the perplexing expression on her face. Nonetheless, her expression did not bewilder him as much as the sight of Dumbledore and Lupin by her side. With much effort, he tore his eyes away from the picture and began to read the article below it:

_Bellatrix Lestrange Held Innocent in Trial _

_The Winzengamot has held former Death Eater and escapee from Azkaban innocent today in her trial at the Ministry of Magic. Lestrange had been given Veritaserum and the Wizengamot had listened attentively to her trials and reasons for joining He-Who-Shall-Not-Be Named—_

_Oh god, _Harry mentally groaned. Vernon Dursley's most irritating voice had leapt up the hallways, up the stairs and into his room. "WHO ARE YOU?" the buffoon kept on shrieking. Harry had been given such a terrible start. Flinging the _Daily Prophet _to the ground, he slid off his mattress and began to stride downstairs to see what this whole hullabaloo downstairs was about.

And did he find out: His mouth sprain open when reached the ground floor. A tall man with a long white beard, equally long white hair, dressed in the darkest of blue robes, was trying to calm down his uncle—'_What in Morgana's bloody tits,' _Harry mentally cursed.

To Harry's surprise, Vernon relaxed (Harry would later wonder if Dumbledore had uttered a silent calming spell), but his flappy face was still a foul shade of purple, and he looked as though he would burst any second.

Harry then turned his attention to the left of Vernon where he found his Aunt running down towards the living room in her pyjamas, looking simply flabbergasted. Petunia stopped in her tracks once her eyes rested on the spectacle before her; she seemed to intuitively guess who the odd man in their living room was. No sooner, Harry found a large figure looming behind her—it was his pig of a cousin, and he was peeping at Dumbledore from behind his mother's back. Harry had to stifle down a snort upon seeing this, but his amusement was short-lived, for his attention was suddenly taken by Dumbledore who had called after him: "Harry, I am terribly sorry for suddenly intruding like this, but I must take you to Sirius' will hearing."

_No… _

Harry most definitely did not want to go, for hearing Sirius' will meant that his godfather had certainly passed away…

Nonetheless, he gave a feeble nod to Dumbledore before he traipsed towards him, while the Durselys' stares bore into his back. "My greatest apologies," said Dumbledore to the startled lot before he turned his attention back to Harry. "Your hand, Harry," he said; and Harry, confused, clasped his hands with Dumbledore's. The Headmaster then turned his gaze back to the Dursleys: "Good-bye then," he said, parting with the most confused (and trembling) galling Muggles.

And suddenly, before Harry was aware of what was occurring, he began to spin and spin around, and the world began to blur and blur. He came to realize he was experiencing side-along Apparition. It felt as though all the air in his lungs was being forced out, as though his eyeballs were being pushed into his skull, his skull being pushed into his eyeballs, and he felt a great urge to heave—all in all it had been a most unpleasant experience, and he was most certainly glad when it was over. Staggering, the world began to colour again, and it befell on him that he and Dumbledore had arrived to their destination.

So he gazed about, and found himself in a familiar sight: They were in front of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and in a few moments, two figures popped out of thin air before them.

_Pop… Pop…_

The two individuals were Lupin and Tonks, and they smiled at Dumbledore and Harry before the group of them strolled to the bank.

No sooner had they arrived had a goblin come forth. "The will hearing?" the goblin asked in its low for a goblin but still high for a human voice. Dumbledore nodded (quite cheerily, which caused Harry to squirm in irritation—how could one be happy at an event like this?) "Please follow me," the goblin said with a bow; and shortly, they arrived at a magnificent oak door without any sort of handle. Harry would soon know why: The goblin opened the entrance with the use of voiceless magic (and probably a goblin spell), and as Harry sauntered forth, his eyes enlarged…

Right there – right in front of him, in one the ornate chairs, sat a witch with soft dark curls, and her gaze was settled upon the grand while an unfathomable expression was plastered on her fine face.

The woman was none other than Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black.

**oOo**

Anger rushed through him, throttling his air passages. He looked up at Dumbledore, and recalled the _Daily Prophet_. He had not asked Dumbledore yet as to why he and Lupin had been protecting her. Dumbledore, on the other hand, completely understood Harry's thoughts, and so he looked down at emerald eyes brimming with ire, and said, "I will explain later. Not now," while the goblin ushered them to be seated.

He cursed under his breath as he was seated down into a chair. To his abhorrent luck, he found himself sitting next to Bellatrix. He folded his hands together, unconsciously clutched his fingers together too firmly, and made his knuckles turn as white as when he had been holding the _Daily Prophet_ back at the Dursleys.

And though Harry didn't want to look to his right, he had an ineffable desire to see her face, to see what kind of expression her eyes bore. Slowly, he stole a glance and found her gazing blankly down at the floor—she seemed like a vacant vase, precisely how she had seemed in the picture in the _Daily Prophet_.

_"Ahem!"_

He swiftly turned his head around to the cause of the sound: The goblin was clearing his throat, and within the creature's hands was a roll of paper… Harry very well knew what it contained – _Sirius's will._

His felt as though time had stilled for a split second.

Images raced through his mind… of Sirius' jokes… of his pranks… and of being thrown into the veil. No longer could he contain the fury boiling within him. Instantly, he sprang out of his seat, and within seconds pinned Bellatrix next the wall. His hands were clasped tightly around her throat, and each and all around him were completely taken aback.

"_YOU!_" he bellowed. _"How dare you?!_" he hissed, as he stared into her deep, dark pools, and as he gazed into them, he found them void and vacant – she was choking, but her eyes were vacant, as though she didn't care if he killed her right there and then. On seeing this, he released her, not really understanding why, and she flopped down to the ground, gasping for air.

He then felt strong hands seizing him by his shoulders, pulling him away and forcing him back into his chair: It had been Lupin. Harry glanced up at him with eyes ablaze. "Calm down!" the werewolf screamed. Harry then watched him as he walked towards Bellatrix, knelt down beside her and carefully helped her up. And Bellatrix didn't react at all — she seemed like a lifeless ragdoll, rather dead than alive. Lupin then sat her down in his seat.

"The will please," Dumbledore said, bobbing his head at the goblin.

Harry turned his attention to Dumbledore and found that the headmaster was purposefully trying to avoid his gaze.

The goblin began to read the will, but Harry could not concentrate. He could feel his pulse echoing in his mind, his ears focusing on Bellatrix's faint chokes, and through the corner of his eyes, he viewed Tonks give Bellatrix a flask of water.

_What the bloody hell is going on?!_

The goblin finished reading the will, and Lupin and Tonks were staring at Harry with mouths half-open. "What is it?" Harry asked, irritated by their idiotic expressions.

"You're an adult Harry," Lupin whispered.

"Wha—!" Harry inelegantly exclaimed.

"In the will, Sirius made you an adult in the eyes of the law, by making you Lord Black—"

Tonks cut off Lupin, grasping Harry's attention. "You clearly weren't listening to the will," she said. Harry didn't respond. She sighed, "Well, were you?"

He slowly shook his head, which elicited a sigh from Tonks and Lupin. "Please read the will again," Harry heard Dumbledore, and he could hear slight aggravation in his headmaster's voice.

The goblin nodded, not seeming pleased, and began to read: "I, Sirius Black, Lord of the House of Black, instate Harry as Lord Black after my demise, giving him half of the galleons in my vault. For Nymphadora Tonks, I give half a quarter of my galleons, and half a quarter to my dear friend Lupin as well. As for my cousin, Bellatrix Black, I hereby divorce her from Rodolphus Lestrange and give her the other quarter of my galleons. Both my cousin Bellatrix Black and my godson Harry Potter will be co-owners of 12 Grimmauld Place. And, Bella, if you're present at the hearing — I am sorry. I am sorry for not believing in you. I had never received your letter. Lestrange had made sure I would never receive it. I found out about this during my stay in Azkaban, when I had overheard him, rambling about his guilty memories."

Harry had become Lord Black.

_No… _Harry thought.

He didn't want to affiliate with the Blacks at all, for their household was where all the fanatics belonged— like Narcissa for instance and (his eyes darkened) _Bellatrix_...

Yet, Sirius had belonged there too...

Harry marginally calmed down at the aforesaid thought.

Then he suddenly remembered the last lines of Sirius's will. Why did Sirius divorce Bellatrix from Lestrange? Why was he apologizing of all people to her? And what had Bellatrix written in her letter that Lestrange had made sure Sirius wouldn't receive?

Puzzled, he glanced curiously to his left at the witch with striking dark hair and eyes, and found that her expression wasn't as vacant as he had deemed it would be; he swore she had a tear dribbling down from one of her eyes. Startled by what he believed he perceived, he turned his notice to Tonks and Lupin, but the two didn't seem as stunned as he was. He then heard Bellatrix speak for the first time: Her voice was breathy and soft, not at all what he had been expecting to hear, for the last time he had heard her was in the Department of Mysteries, and then her voice had been quite beastly and harsh. "I—I must go," she murmured. "I must go," she said again, barely above a whisper.

Tonks gently grasped Bellatrix's hand. "Do you want me to come with you?" she asked.

Bellatrix snatched her hand away, and hastily shook her head, which made her curls tremble. "No," she croaked firmly, and then suddenly fled, leaving Harry utterly perplexed.

* * *

Edited: June 18, 2013


	3. The Revelation

**Chapter 3: The Revelation**

She _had_ to get away...

She _had_ to get away...

Her feet glided against the ground as she stormed out of Gringotts. From the corner of her eyes, she could see wizards and witches alike staring at her with disgust. Although the Wizengamot had proclaimed her as innocent, most citizens of the Wizarding world hadn't.

At last, she had run far away from Diagon Alley, and had reached the perimeters of Knockturn Alley. She was utterly unaware that she had done so until she looked about for a brief second as she caught her breath, and found perplexed stares set upon her from various witches and wizard whom had come here for needs that concerned the Dark Arts. It seemed she was not in a friendly place, for as she gawked around, she found many faces squirmed in revulsion. _So_, she thought, _it seems I am no longer one of them_. Nevertheless, Bellatrix was feeling far too overwhelmed to be bothered—all she knew was she had to get away, though she didn't know from what, but by running... it—it helped her forget.

So she sprinted again, and her feet recommenced to glide against the ground, while her creamy, white robe bellowed and rustled with the wind — running, it seemed to halt her from thinking. Thus, she ran and ran until she no longer could run anymore. Panting, she staggered and fell down to the ground, her knees bruising as they brushed against the pavement. Her creamy-white robe was stained red with a few droplets of blood that had trickled out of her knees. Lifting her head up, Bellatrix searched around and observed her surroundings, comprehending she had been here before—she was in the depths of Knockturn Alley, a place few dared to go. Nonetheless, for now she was safe, for she found herself completely isolated in a dark and empty alleyway.

As her breathing returned to its normal frequency, thoughts began to budge their way into her mind (that appeared to be happening quite often lately); and instantly, she knew her efforts to avoid this moment had died in vain. Deliriously, she shook her head, and her dark locks twisted into the wild mess they had once been during her imprisonment at Azkaban, and the months following it, until she had fallen under Dumbledore's care. Dumbledore had ushered Madam Promfrey to take care of her. Consequently, she had been given rejuvenation potions, had been forced to bathe and wash herself, and slowly had been restored to maximum physical health, while internally... she was in turmoil—

A gasp escaped from her lips.

_It was happening._

Memories flew into her mind—buried memories. Bellatrix shrieked and pleaded for them to stop. _No, _she didn't want to remember—she didn't want to remember them. But she already had — already had at Gringotts — and it was why she had run in the first place — to stop remembering them.

It seemed like centuries ago:

_Her mother had called her down with her usual cold, and emotionally void voice. "Bellatrix! Sirius is here, and he wishes to speak to you. Be quick," she had said. Bellatrix's heart had thumped furiously as she heard Sirius's name – they had been close friends since their days in their cradle. However, what she hadn't known then was that their friendship would deteriorate into oblivion that very day._

_Bellatrix marched down the stairs quickly, still in her nightgown, and looked down at the door with a friendly smile. Her mother grunted when she viewed her apparel, but Bellatrix paid no attention to her disapproval. Before the door, she found her closest companion; his dark hair was a ruffled mess, and his equally dark eyes were gleaming at her with fondness. "Bella!" Sirius beamed._

_"Siri! Come—come up to my room!" she responded, still smiling warmly at him, while she continued to avoid her mother's glare that fired with criticism. Sirius had become the black sheep of the family ever since the day he had been sorted into Gryffindor, but that hadn't stopped Bellatrix from speaking to him._

_He nodded and followed her up to her room. Bellatrix signalled for him to sit down on her ornate and almost century old bed. "Well," she said as she clumsily plopped down on one of the sofas in her room. "How's Hogwarts?"_

_Sirius didn't respond, and as she observed him further, she realized he didn't seem too cheerful; he was staring down at the ground, his black eyes avoiding her equally dark ones._

_"Sirius?" she whispered, her voice tender. "Is something wrong?" _

_He slowly lifted his gaze from the ground, and she was instantly shocked to find that his eyes were rimmed red. _

_He had been crying._

_In less than a flash, she jolted out of her chair, stormed towards him, and sat by his side. Upon picking up his hand gently, she asked, "Sirius?" and her voice had shaken, for never had she seen him so disoriented before._

Sirius was not a crying man.

_"I heard," he croaked. "I heard about your engagement to Lestrange."_

_"Oh," Bellatrix mumbled, her voice faltering. "But—you knew—you knew it was coming... there was nothing neither I nor you could've done."_

_"No," he said at first, and his eyes seemed to gaze off into the distance. "No,' he said again, and his eyes snapped back to Bellatrix, staring into her dark pools. "… But we can run way!" he exclaimed. "Run away from it all!" _

_Bellatrix considered his proposal. By running away, she would be removing herself from all the responsibilities and burdens that came with being the first-child of Lord Black… but running away also meant she would not be able to take care of her two younger sisters— they would be subjected to her father's wrath—no—no— she could not let that happen. A shot of pain rustled through her as she recalled her father's beatings a few nights ago — he would vent his anger only on her, and so long as she was here, her sisters would be kept away from their father's acrimony…_

_Slowly, she shook her head. "I can't, Siri. You've got a year left at Hogwarts, and I've got to take care of my sisters. I can't – if we run away," she whispered, hoping he'd understand. _

_Sirius didn't respond for a while. In its place, he merely stared at her while his expression altered from despair with a shard of hope into complete and utter anger. All of a sudden, he shot out of her bed. "Don't lie to me, _Bellatrix_!" he bellowed. "I know it's something else—there's—there's something else— I know it."_

_Bellatrix stared at him with a perplexed expression set on her face, completely taken aback. After regaining her equanimity, she whispered softly while looking into his equally dark pools, "No Sirius, I... I said nothing but the truth."_

_"No!" he immediately shot back. "I saw you with him — with Lestrange. I know it. I can see it. You love him don't you? You told me you could never love me. I'm just a—a _brother," he spluttered, "_... but him...you love him! And I can see it in your eyes!"_

_"Siri—" Bellatrix implored, stunned and shocked at the foolish explanation he had given. "I do love you. Don't be rash, you are aware of that, but I cannot love you in the manner you wish... Sirius. I can't. I-I don't know why... but my heart... but my heart cannot—"_

_He began to storm out of her room, but jolted to a stop at her door's threshold. He turned around, and spoke to her for what would be the very last time. "You are nothing to me!" he screamed, and then thundered out, leaving her utterly confused and perplexed._

_That day, she had assumed it had just been one of Sirius's outbursts, as he was quite impetuous—but days passed, months passed, and she never heard from him again._

She gasped as the memory departed…

Sirius had apologized in his will for what he had done to her years ago…

"_Oh_," she croaked.

Suddenly, another memory replaced the one she had witnessed a moment ago, and this one floated into her mind so vividly she ceased to exist in the present moment:

_She had never dreamed of a love marriage—it was utterly foolish to do so. She had prepared herself to be married to a 'good pureblood boy', and when the day had arrived and her mother had told her that 'good pureblood boy' would be Rodolphus, she was not shocked nor was she stunned – she had simply nodded and forced a smile on her delicate lips, and had then gone up to her room— hadn't even shed a tear. She had merely dumped herself on her bed and slept in attempt to forget her dreary reality for just a few hours._

_Sirius hadn't spoken to her since that day. He had left Hogwarts at sixteen, the very year of their quarrel, and had then run away from his parents, never setting his eyes on his past again; and therefore, never setting his eyes on her as well. She was now just a remnant of his past… perhaps, just a shady memory in the folds of his mind. Bellatrix had wondered if he ever thought of her—thought of the memories they had shared while drifting off to sleep in his bed— like she had—every night. But a part of her felt he had moved on._

_However, a day had arrived when she had no one to turn to but him. That day, she had been crouched low beside her bed on the cold marble floor in Lestrange Manor — each bone in her body had been aching with pain. Rodolphus had beaten her, more violently than ever before, for he had been terribly angry that day when he had arrived from the Healer._

_"Rod?" she had asked when she had heard someone Apparate into the living room while she prepared dinner, rather than having the house-elves cook. The smell of food and pastries of all sorts filled the atmosphere, and she thought of children, perhaps a daughter or a son (though the former Rodolphus would not want—oh, but she'd brush her hair everyday, and buy her the most beautiful dolls…), and how she or he would be nudging her gown, asking when dinner would be ready when—_

_"YOU BITCH!" _

_She had been utterly defenceless – Rodolphus had taken her wand. She remembered his face – it was stern and bursting red with fury. His hands had been morphed into knuckles, as he fully grasped and came to terms with the fact that it wasn't Bellatrix who was infertile, but him. And so, he had vented it on her— she had to suffer through a harsh beating that day — she had been beaten so hard, she had passed out for hours and hours, lying like a lifeless corpse in her pool of blood. And then, after she had woken up, croaking and trembling, she feared that he would come and blast through the door any second and she would writhe under his wrath again. Thus, she had decided she had had enough — she needed help._

_Three years ago, her father had died, and hadn't left a single sickle to anyone. Her father hadn't written a will, for he had been too prideful — so prideful he thought he would live forever – and the thought of dying had never crossed his mind. The day her father had died, she had waited in Gringotts, waiting and waiting to hear what her father had left her — perhaps she could flee and run away with her inheritance. But only dreadful news had come— he had left nothing for her or Narcissa. Narcissa, of course, hadn't been too troubled by this, her husband treated her well — she had a good life… at least, as good as it got for a trophy wife._

_Sitting crouched beside her bed, Bellatrix thought of whom to ask for help. She thought of her sister — Narcissa — but, she crossed her out of her mind, not wishing to burden her sister, for Bellatrix knew Narcissa would never be able to deal with such troubles._

_Sighing as tears lashed down her cheeks, she thought of every face she had met in her life— suddenly—Sirius's image flickered before her._

_She had found her silver lining._

_Although they had not been in touch with one another for years, she felt—perhaps— he would have a meagre amount of sympathy left. If not out of the friendship they had once shared, he would perhaps help her out of common decency and pity. She crawled towards the desk situated by her bed, and then began to rummage through its drawers, searching for some paper and a quill. After finding the tools she needed, she splatted the paper onto the ground, and commenced to write hastily with her trembling and bruised hand:_

_Dear Siri,_

_I cannot remain here any longer. I need out. Please, help me. Take me out of here._

_Bella_

_That was all she had said. She couldn't put into words what she had suffered from at the hands of Lestrange. No, she was too shamefaced and afraid to ever mouth or write those terrible gruesome beatings. _

_She got up from the ground, staggering, her hands shaking while she attached the letter to her owl's foot. "For Sirius," she mumbled to the owl, her voice etched with pain and just a faint shard of hope, and she watched her owl as it hooted and flew out the window._ _Then, after her owl had disappeared into the darkness of the night-sky, she threw herself on her bed. One tear drivelled down her bruised cheek as she closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep._

He would come. She was sure.

_The next day, she was woken up by her owl's hoots. She sprang out of her bed and glanced outside her window with wide and hopeful eyes. She knew her Siri would reply, after all they had been childhood friends — he would definitely help her — pull her out of the dark pit she had lived in for years. She greeted the owl with enthusiasm, and turned her lips into a hopeful smile. She hadn't smiled for so long… but the smile would be short-lived._

_The smile faltered and was replaced with tears. She stood shocked, taken aback by what she perceived. The owl did not have a letter—Sirius had not written back—he had completely disregarded her plea for help._

_Her one shard of hope was gone._

_Without thought, she crashed down to the ground, closed her eyes and hugged her knees, as position she often had often found herself in, in her formative years. _

_And she waited, waited for days and days, for a letter, for a word from Sirius… but nothing arrived. It was then that she heard of Voldemort from Rodolphus. Apparently he treated his followers well, and gave those who supported his cause justice. It was then that she silently began to respect this man, whomsoever he was, and from that day and onwards, she slowly lost herself — possessed by the idea that Voldemort would finally give her freedom — she would be able to flee from her terrible existence, and then her decision resolute — she decided to meet this man for herself. And no sooner had she met him, had she had the dark mark etched on her arm — it had been her sign of liberty._

She was inhaling and exhaling heavily as she sat crouched on the ground. Her face was wet with tears — Sirius had never received her letter of desperation— and if he had, he would have most definitely come to her rescue.

_He would have come. _

Truth had set her free today, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth spread through her form. But as soon as she had felt so, the pleasant feeling had disappeared, for a sudden rush of chillness was had come its place—

_I killed him._

She croaked and staggered forwards, and was now on all fours on the pavement, breathing heavily. Her disillusionment troubled her soul so. She wanted it to stop—it was so much easier before when all she had felt was hate—but now she felt remorse—_guilt_.

And it befell on her: She had turned herself precisely into what she had once despised most in her formative years, for she had turned ruthless and cold like her father and Rodolphus.

And now, although she still hated—she hated herself most of all.

Still panting harshly, she thought _Grimmauld Place. _Although Grimmauld Place had anti-apparition spells—being the co-owner of it now, she knew she could Apparate there_._ She closed her eyes and thought of the three D's: Destination, Determination and Deliberation. Grimmauld Place had been Sirius's first home, and she hoped she could find remnants of him there.

Shortly, she felt herself being condensed into a particle—everything went black—she felt like iron bands had stiffened around her chest—but no sooner had she felt that way, the feeling had vanished: She had successfully Apparated into Grimmauld Place—a place where she had shared many hours of her childhood alongside Sirius. Her eyes still closed, she hoped to see him and his lopsided and playful smirk. He would be right before her when she opened them–_ yes, yes_ – and she would draw into his embrace, smell that familiar scent of the sun and ocean and grass…

Still on all fours like she had been in the dark and dim alleyway, Bellatrix slowly fluttered her eyes open, revealing her dark irises—

He wasn't there.

And though she had been expecting this, knives stabbed repeatedly into her heart.

She had only been met with the cold, empty main corridor of Grimmauld Place, and the portraits of her mostly fanatical ancestors on its aged and worn-torn walls.

There was silence for minutes and minutes, while Bellatrix stared blankly at the vacant corridor. Slowly, a faint laugh left her lips, which then was slowly replaced by a chuckle, and then by a loud and ear deafening cackle—it was the most unnerving cackle she had ever produced.

She sprang up from the ground, her hands now wrapped around her belly, as she walked forward unsteadily, cackling louder and louder — her cackles were thundering through the corridor, and to the floors above, waking all the paintings of her ancestors in Grimmauld Place.

_"I KILLED SIRIUS!"_ she cried and shrieked, still cackling and staggering, as she aimlessly wandered forwards.

* * *

Edited: June 18, 2013


	4. That Familiar Cackle

**Chapter 4: That Familiar Cackle**

Tonks was walking frantically back and forth across the living room at the Burrow. "What if she doesn't come back?" Tonks bawled. The Metamorphmagus huffed in – her heart was drenched in worry and concern. "We should've never let her run out of Gringotts alone—_she's unpredictable_!" Then, with a smack, she splatted herself down on one of the run-down sofas in the Weasley's living room, and shoved her face into her hands. Her hair was no longer the bright pink colour that it usually was— it was now a mousey-brown. "She could be anywhere—what if _they've _taken her?" Her muffled voice came through the cracks between her fingers. A sighing Lupin neared her, and began to comfort her with words, but she remained panic-stricken.

As all this transpired, Harry remained still— seated down on another sofa beside Tonks— void of any expression other than pure glee on his face. He didn't care if something horrible had happened to Bellatrix. He supposed he could care less if she died this very day. After they had arrived at the Burrow, Dumbledore had commenced to explain Sirius's wish of keeping Bellatrix safe and well, privately in a room to Harry. Upon hearing Sirius's wish, Harry had screamed out, "Lies! Lies!" repeatedly in a furious tone. After being calmed down, he was then taken back into the living room—and so here he was now.

Dumbledore was currently sitting serenely, and munching on some quite flavoursome food that Mrs. Weasley had prepared. "This tastes very good, Molly. You must give me the recipe!" he beamed, but she retorted light-heartedly by saying that she couldn't, for the recipe was a family secret. The headmaster chuckled back— he didn't seem an ounce disturbed over the fact that Bellatrix was lost— this caused Tonks to squirm in exasperation and anger.

The now mousy-haired Metamorphmagus hadn't told anyone that she had gradually grown familial feelings for Bellatrix. For all her years alive, she had never had the delight of calling anyone her Aunt or Uncle, since her Muggle father had been an only child and well, her mother had been disowned by her family.

When Dumbledore had told Tonks about Sirius's wish of keeping Bellatrix well and safe— she didn't know how she felt at first— she had simply stared at the headmaster with wide eyes, and a half-open mouth. However, when she had entered his office and had spotted a woman with dark-hair—strikingly resembling her own mother— sitting down on a chair, quiet and still, not exactly what she had been expecting from the renowned, and presumably deranged Bellatrix Black— she felt a spur of platonic love rumble through her heart.

_This woman was her Aunt._

Tonks knew that Bellatrix had committed great acts of wickedness—had turned the Longbottoms insane—was a notorious murderer. However, when Dumbledore had informed Tonks of Sirius's wish, she knew instantly there was a story— and perhaps a tragic one at that— behind why her aunt had turned so malevolent.

So, when she had entered Dumbledore's office—she couldn't help but think 'Aunt Bellatrix' upon gazing at her aunt. It was, of course, quite irrational of her. Bellatrix didn't seem a bit affectionate in any way, but nevertheless, she felt hope—she felt that perhaps a day would come when she would have the pleasure of referring to her as 'Aunt Bellatrix', and when that thought had popped into her mind, she felt herself care for Bellatrix ever since.

And so right now Tonks was _royally_ livid.

How could Dumbledore be so calm when her aunt (most probably in a very unstable state) was lost? Perhaps, even Voldemort's prisoner, for after all the_ Daily Prophet_ had made her trial the prime headline in its papers for weeks.

Tonks moved her face away from her hands and stared at the headmaster, who was nibbling the last bits off his plate. "Dumbledore," she said tranquilly, not revealing the heavy mount of anger she felt for him in her voice, "why aren't we looking for her?"

Dumbledore lifted his gaze from his plate, and then smiled warmly at the Metamorphmagus. "I have already told you—I have the situation under _full _control, Tonks. You mustn't worry," he responded. He then checked the watch banded across his wrist. "Harry?" he said, in an inquiring tone.

Harry, who had been drifting in his own thoughts, completely spaced-out and unaware of the going-ons in his surroundings, was startled to hear Dumbledore call him. He immediately flickered his green eyes towards him with a slightly gaping mouth. "_Er_—yes, Professor?" he mumbled – Harry had tried hard to hide his delight at Bellatrix's disappearance in his voice, but it had still been exposed, and Dumbledore had heard it.

"I believe you should visit Grimmauld Place," Dumbledore said, once having Harry's full attention. "After all, it is your property now Harry, you should get yourself well acquainted with it."

"I guess so, Professor," Harry grumbled.

"Well, let us go then! What about it, Harry?" he asked enthusiastically, his blue eyes glimmering.

Harry shrugged as he got up, while Dumbledore continued to smile as he lifted himself off his chair. "I'll see you all soon," he said to Mrs. Weasley, Tonks and Lupin. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fleur and Bill had gone upstairs to their allocated bedrooms and had fallen asleep long ago.

"Hold onto my shoulder Harry, just gently—no need to hold on so tightly," Dumbledore explained to Harry, who had been clenching too firmly onto his arm.

**oOo**

Harry watched 12 Grimmauld Place alongside Dumbledore, shove away its neighbouring homes, and reveal worn staircases that lead to its magnificently large front door. "I must go somewhere," Harry heard his headmaster's peaceful voice. Harry looked around and viewed Dumbledore who was gazing down at him with his typically twinkling blue eyes. Dumbledore fiddled in his pocket and then with an, "_Ah_," he removed a plastic bag that contained a green substance. "Here's some floo powder, Harry. So, you can return to the Burrow when you're ready." Harry grasped the plastic bag from Dumbledore's palms, and forced a faint smile on his face and thanked him. "Now, I have to get going," Dumbledore said. Harry lifted an eyebrow, for he had assumed that the headmaster would visit Grimmauld Place with him. "Don't worry, Grimmauld Place is quite safe. I assure you, Harry."

"Alright," Harry mumbled, and commenced to say his good-byes to Dumbledore. The headmaster then nodded in return and Disapparated with a smile. A grumbling Harry looked around from the empty space that Dumbledore had been occupying a second ago, back to 12 Grimmauld Place, and felt that if he were to enter it then memories of his godfather would blast through his mind. With a sigh, he hesitantly strode up the worn steps and opened the front door.

He jerked to a stop at the threshold.

Aunt Walburga's portrait was on the marble floor, and the glass encasing it had been crushed into smithereens. Harry was stunned, for he had assumed that her portrait had been stuck to the wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm. He took a few steps forward, and heard the front door slam shut on its own, causing him to jolt in surprise. After he calmed down, he commenced to trudge towards the portrait. Finally, he had kneeled down to view it.

Harry's green eyes were wide as he stared at the portrait for what seemed to be more than a few minutes. Aunt Walburga was nowhere to be seen, she had run away from her portrait, perhaps to another one. He was surprised, to say the least, as he erected himself back to a straighter form. Lifting an eyebrow, he glanced around his surroundings, wondering if it had been Sirius who had finally managed to remove his mother's portrait from the wall— he suddenly staggered backwards—his ears had caught a _very_ familiar cackle rumble from what seemed to be the first floor.

Bellatrix Black was with him in the dwelling.

His fingers curled around his wand firmly as he jolted upstairs. A sneer painted over his face when he finally arrived at the first floor, nearly stumbling as he did so on the very last step. He waited to hear that cackle that he so very despised, but it never came. For a splitting second, he had assumed that he had imagined it, until he heard what seemed in likeliness to a woman whimpering vibrate towards him from the very end of the dark corridor. "Lumos," he muttered bitterly, causing his wand to flicker a beam of light at its end. A cold smile washed over his generally kind features, as he began to march forwards— very slowly and quietly.

At last, he arrived at the end of the corridor, and found a door cracked slightly open. He tiptoed near it, and peered into the room, and as he had expected—he spotted a bouquet of dark curls. His green eyes burned with anger. He opened the oak door a bit more, very gently to make sure it wouldn't creak, and then peeped in again to see more of what his godfather's murderer was up to.

**oOo**

An hour ago, Bellatrix had found Sirius's diary in the room he had stayed at in Grimmauld Place the previous year, until three months ago—when she had killed him. She had found it during the peak of her mental breakdown in his wardrobe, under clothes that still emitted his smell. And, she had drenched every entry within it with hot tears—each entry of his had not passed without the mentioning of her name.

Sirius hadn't stopped loving her—even for _one_ day— through all the years that they had been estranged.

But yet, even now—with all she had read in his diary— she could not love him _that _way.

She could only perceive him platonically and as nothing more.

And so, minutes ago, she had come to the conclusion that her heart was cold—that it could never love. She had staggered forwards, and had her body face-down splatted next to the floor— she hadn't even cried a bit—not that she didn't want to—but she had cried enough while reading his diary, and didn't have any more tears to shed. While facedown on the floor, she had arrived at a decision. Thus, here she was now planning to execute it…

She was sitting upright on the floor with crossed legs, and had her wand's tip pushed into her bosom—right above her heart—as memories that she had shared with Sirius flicked through her mind in repeated cycles.

Her eyebrows were furrowed.

She was ready.

She began, "Avada Keda—"

"STOP!" A voice thundered into the room.

Her walnut wand fell from her hand—her head began to turn around to where the voice had issued—she yearned for the voice to belong to Sirius. Perhaps, he was here—he had survived somehow—his mischievous smirk dancing upon his face.

Her heart sank.

Rather than seeing dark and frisky eyes, she had found striking green ones staring at her with concern and distress—

Sirius was dead.

She had killed him.

The boy looking at her was Harry Potter—not her Siri.

She grimaced in irritation, and grabbed her wand again from the floor, placing the tip upon her bosom again— about to finish what she had started— when suddenly she was knocked hard onto the floor.

The back of her head began to throb with pain. Wheezing, she fluttered her long and dark eyelashes, feeling half-dazed and confused.

A crease began to form between her eyebrows.

She found the boy with the striking green eyes on top, his weight upon her body, his hands clasping her wrists—they were inches away from each other's faces, breathing heavily upon each other's skin.

Flabbergasted, she stared at his green orbs with her dark ones for a few minutes, thunderstruck as to what to do. Then she spoke, her voice flat and icy—she always accomplished every decision she made in her life, and this boy had interfered with one of them...

**oOo**

Dumbledore sat in his office, waiting patiently for Phineaus to come and reveal to him what was occurring at Grimmauld Place. He suddenly heard someone clearing his voice, and turned around to where he expected the voice to have issued. He was correct—the voice had transmitted from Phineaus's portrait. "Hello Phineaus," Dumbledore said, amiably. "Any good news?"

Phineaus stared at Dumbledore with a face that seemed awfully distraught. "I do not know," he responded, his head was sunk low— he wasn't staring at Dumbledore directly. "I can only hear the racket that is going on the first floor! I can't go there—I don't have a portrait there!"

The current headmaster at Hogwarts smiled warmly at the troubled one in the portrait. "All will turn out well, Phineaus. Your great-great granddaughter will not be harmed, I assure you," he comforted, instinctively knowing that Phineaus was worried for his last few living descendants, only a dwindling few remained— Bellatrix and her two sisters to be exact.

Phineaus slowly nodded, not fully believing Dumbledore's words. "I hope so," he mumbled. "I will go and stay at my portrait in Grimmauld Place."

Dumbledore nodded, letting Phineaus leave, and then began to sip on his cup of tea. He smiled, after he had a lemon drop that he had drunken down with his tea.

**oOo**

_"Get off me, Potter," Bellatrix had said icily and flatly, looking at his face with a deadpan expression._

_"No," he had said, firmly. "I won't let you kill yourself."_

Harry's green eyes were penetrating into her soul, and were unintentionally filled with worry. He still had his hands clasped around her wrists, and was pinning her down to the ground— he could tell that if he continued his hold, she would end up carrying a bruise on her wrists for weeks.

He didn't know why he had done it.

Just minutes ago, back at the Burrow, he had felt elated at the notion that Bellatrix might have been captured by Voldemort—or _even_ better—_killed_.

Except, when he had been staring through the crack behind the door, watching her mutter the Killing Curse— he had unexpectedly bolted forwards and had pressed her down to the ground.

He could've just let her die, he thought, while staring at dark eyes that were brewing with irritation and fury—she _really_ wanted to die.

But, he couldn't. He couldn't let her die.

"You know, there _are_ other ways I can kill myself," she replied, off-putting him from his thoughts. He stared at her, befuddled as to what she would do next— her dark hair was a splendid mess as she continued to speak— her heavily hooded eyes were filled with vehemence. "For example," she said coolly, "I could just stop breathing for a few minutes." She huffed out a load of air from her chest—she was trying not to breath.

"Don't be stupid," Harry said severely, but she didn't respond as she closed her eyes, and continued her mission of death by lack of air consumption.

A few seconds or so passed by, her eyes were still closed while she tried to kill herself. Harry growled and felt irritated. However, his irritation began to be swapped with worry and dread as she continued to lay flatly below him with a still chest. Had she died? Abruptly, he began to shake her back and forth— she wobbled like a ragdoll under his hold, and her dark hair flew wildly, sometimes thrusted on Harry's face. "Breathe!" he screamed, as he continued to vibrate her. "Breathe!" he howled.

"Stop. It," Bellatrix had already sighed in exasperation the minute he had begun to shake her. Her eyes had already burst open, but Harry hadn't noticed as he continued shaking her deliriously. She huffed in, and then with all the force she could conjure, she screamed— "STOP!"

Harry jerked to a stop and stared at her blankly, dumbfounded and half-confused for half-a-second. Then, his green eyes gradually began to look relieved. "You're alive!" he exclaimed.

She rolled her eyes.

Harry's hands still grasped her shoulders tightly. "Let go of me," she growled. He didn't let go and shook his head. Scanning the room, to his right, he found her walnut wand lying deserted on the floor. Quickly, he seized it with one hand.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" he screamed.

Bellatrix was speechless—her eyes widened as she plopped down to the ground and felt her body stiffen. She watched Harry in a baffled state as he held her wand in his hands. He smirked faintly, "I won't let you kill yourself," and then she watched him as he—

_Crack_.

He had cracked her wand in two.

"I'll get you a new one—when I'm sure you're not going to kill yourself with it," he said.

Internally, as Bellatrix began to understand what he had just done, flame-hot anger began to boil in her heart. If she hadn't been cursed by surprise, she was sure that—'the Potter boy' as she referred to Harry— would be lamenting under a very potent Cruciatus curse.

She continued to watch him with her widened dark eyes. He erected from the ground, and bent down. She wondered what he was going to do next. She was cursing in her head. And then, thunderstruck once more, she beheld him kneel down towards her and scoop her off the ground.

Bellatrix was raging inside— she loathed feeling his touch.

Her head was situated next to his chest, as he walked over to what had been Sirius's bed, holding her gently in his arms "You've had a long day," he said, dropping her down onto the tattered mattress of the bed with a big thump. Meanwhile, Bellatrix hadn't noticed where he had been striding or what he had said, for she had been grumbling in her head, cursing and cussing—

She winced as her back rubbed against a vindictive bedspring.

Confused, she watched him as he incanted a few anti-vermin and anti-insect charms over the mattress she now found herself lying on. Harry did the same with the worn pillow positioned under her head, but unseen due to her dark hair that had now frizzed wildly. He then sighed, while warily positioning a blanket over her, and soon incanting on it the same spells he had used on the mattress and pillow.

Bellatrix's lifeblood was pounding with rage.

Minutes ago, she was expecting to see the afterlife—perhaps hell or whatever the hell that came after death—but _definitely_ not this.

"Goodnight," she heard Harry's fatigued voice, towing her out of her thoughts.

From the corner of one of her eyes, she viewed him as he marched away with a pillow held in one of his hands. He flung the pillow to the cold ground, slumped down and smacked his head on it with a huff.

She hadn't noticed, but in her head, she had huffed unerringly the same way.

* * *

_Author's Note: Finally, some Bellatrix/Harry interaction! Anyway, you'll see plenty more of it in the upcoming chapters that I'm hopefully going to write (soon), for I've scrapped the chapters I've already written— deeming them not worthy for this fic. I feel that this fic is going to be terribly long, and it's gotten me a bit stumped and excited at the same time. So, yup—enough of my rambling. Hope you enjoyed this bit. As you might already know—your feedback is welcomed. Feel free to say whatever you want! I reply to every review! _

_So long for now! =)_


	5. Aunt Walburga's Bloody Portrait

**Chapter 5: Aunt Walburga's Bloody Portrait**

Clouds had lowered down from the skies, blurring streets and buildings. It was a terribly awful and cold day for an August morning. It had poured the previous night, and now the streets were suffering the after-effects of a huge shower. Most Muggles had called in sick for work, as it would be a terribly weary mission to travel through the still very wet, and soaked streets of London.

Bellatrix was tossing back and forth in bed, curling up, reverting to tossing back and forth—doing all this in order to cover herself fully with a very worn blanket. She was quite unconscious of the fact that the Body-Bind Curse that had been incanted on her by Harry the previous night had finally lost its hold. She groaned, her toes were stiff cold—the blanket was too undersized for her figure. Knowing that the blanket wouldn't cover her toes, no matter how hard she tried, she then stuffed her head under the pillow in order to warm her ears instead. She grumbled when she did not succeed in her mission to warm them. Sighing, still half-dazed and asleep, she fluttered her dark-eyelashes and revealed her dark irises to the world.

Meanwhile, Harry was quite immersed in his sleep. He had his mouth half-open, drool leaking out of it as he slept, seeming quite dead from afar. Therefore, he did not know that the witch sitting upright on the bed behind him, and who was now absorbing her surroundings with enlarged eyes—was not going to linger in a half-dazed state for long.

Bellatrix was about to thrust her slender hand into the pocket located at the side of her robe to find her wand, but stopped instantly when her eyes accidently caught it on the floor by her bed— cracked in two.

Comprehension dawned onto her.

Memories of the past night swept into her mind.

Her breathing began to get ragged. She lifted her gaze from her cracked wand to Harry Potter who was lying down a few inches away from it—he was sleeping so soundly he seemed almost unconscious. Her lips curled into a small smirk, as she stared at the holly wand sticking out of his pocket. Slowly, she climbed down from bed, and began to tiptoe silently towards him.

He didn't even notice.

He didn't even toss around or make the faintest sound, as she gently drew out his wand from his pocket. She stared blankly at the wand her hands now held onto firmly, not quite knowing what to do with it. So, she stood still for a few seconds, and a thought suddenly popped into her mind that seemed to interest her more than completing what she had planned to do yesterday. Smiling menacingly, she curled her slim fingers on both ends of the wand and—

_Snap._

She had broken it in two, just the way Harry had broken her wand.

She smirked, the boy deserved it—nobody had ever dared break her wand—and she knew exactly where to place the pieces. Kneeling down, she gently opened his pocket with her fingers, and then carefully shoved it back to where it had been in one piece—just a mere few seconds ago. The deed done, she trudged out of the room, walking through the hallway, and down the stairs to the ground floor.

Shivering, she hugged herself with her hands, as she began to pace through main corridor towards the nearest fireplace— when suddenly she screamed in distress. Looking down, she realized she had walked into granules of glass— it had been the glass encasing the portrait of her _dreadfully_ annoying aunt.

She groaned, staggering backwards and collapsing down on the cold-hard ground. She hissed at the pain, as she shoved her hand into her pocket for her wand, but was met with nothingness, so she had to resort to removing each individual glass that had been cemented into the skin on both her feet with her hands.

At last, she removed the very last pieces from her feet. Her hands were now fully stained red. She glanced down at the creamy-white robe she had been wearing since yesterday morning. The robe was now spoiled red from her blood— first tainted red by the blood that had oozed from her knees, when she had fallen down after running from Gringotts—and now from the blood that had seeped out of her feet. Growling, she ripped the ends of her gown, and began wrapping them around both her feet. It took a few tries before she finally succeeded in dressing them properly.

She rose from the ground, carefully avoiding the glass smithereens on the floor, and limped towards the nearest fireplace. Finally, she arrived to a room with one. Only, she stared at the fireplace dumbfounded, not really knowing how to lit it without her wand. She slumped down onto a worn sofa and growled in irritation. She felt quite handicapped without her wand—it was such a terrible existence. She began to wonder how Muggles could live without magic on a daily basis—

"Having trouble?" she heard a voice. She instantly turned her head around, her dark curls springing onto one side of her shoulder. A boy with jet-black hair and striking green eyes was staring at her with a smirk plastered on his face: it was Harry Potter. She smirked back, wondering if he had realized she had destroyed his wand. His footsteps neared her, and she soon viewed his shadow loom on the ground beside the sofa she was seated on. Slowly, she lifted her head, and stared at him with her dark eyes. Both of their faces were void of any expression other than pure irritation. They stared at each other for a few minutes in such a manner—not uttering a single word, until— "You broke me wand," he said flatly, breaking the silence.

She shrugged and didn't respond.

He glanced down at her feet, and found them dressed with the material her robe had been made of. The cloth was stained completely red— she was bleeding profusely. He remembered how he had been walking down the main corridor, and had found dabbles of blood leaving a trail—he had followed it, until he had arrived to the small study room they were now in— "MISTRESS IS BLEEDING!" Bellatrix and Harry turned around abruptly at the voice, both completely stunned, and in state of wonderment at whom else was in the abode.

A house-elf, roughly three foot tall, with wrinkles covering his frail little body, and white hair sticking out of his ears was staring frantically at Bellatrix. "DID MASTER DO IT?" he screamed. "DID MASTER DO IT?" Harry growled and grumbled, this was 'just great', he thought to himself, 'just great'. Bellatrix and Kreacher, the two beings that irked him the most, were with him in the same room.

"Quiet down, Kreacher," Harry heard Bellatrix order. He looked back at her, and was surprised to find her equally as aggravated as he was at seeing the house-elf. "It was not _him,_" she said bitterly to the house-elf, referring to Harry, "it was that bloody annoying portrait of Aunt Walburga."

Kreacher looked stunned. He stared at Bellatrix for a while, and then his stricken and stunned face began to turn into an awful expression that conveyed pure disgust and revulsion. Bellatrix, in just a fraction of a second, was no longer the idol he had worshiped for years. She was now just as equally as repulsive as Harry Potter—she had referred to his flawless Mistress as 'annoying'. Slowly, trudging away from their view, he went into the kitchen cupboard where he lived and kept Bellatrix's picture. Grimacing, he began to rip it to pieces, moping as he did so.

Meanwhile, back in the study room, Harry looked at Bellatrix frantically and with irritation. He shoved his hands into both of his pockets, but couldn't find the plastic bag that held the floo powder Dumbledore had given him yesterday. Cursing within, he ran up the hallway, avoiding the granules of glass from Aunt Walburga's portrait, and hysterically searched around to find the plastic bag, but he couldn't find it anywhere. He couldn't Apparate—he didn't know how—how was he going to find someone to heal Bellatrix's wounds—how was he going to get back to the Burrow or Privet Drive?

Growling, he went back to the study room, brooding as he did so, and arrived back at where he had been standing a few minutes ago. Bellatrix didn't seem to care an iota for where he had disappeared, or why he had been causing such a ruckus upstairs. "Now, with no wands or a house-elf to heal those wounds—what do you plan on doing? You've got to Apparate to St. Mungo's or—I don't know—the Burrow to heal them," he said, furrowing his eyebrows in anger, though his eyes were muddled with concern.

Bellatrix once again just shrugged, for she didn't care if she bled. Sirius's face was flickering through her head once again. She could _perhaps_ die out of extreme loss of blood, she thought—the thought elated her. Harry caught on. "I'm not going to let you die," he said, firmly.

"Why?"

Harry was surprised, for he had heard her speak and hadn't been met with her usual shrug. He stared at her, perplexed by her question, while she stared at him with her striking, heavily-hooded dark eyes, waiting for a reply. 'Why?' she had asked. It was such a simple question, but he couldn't invoke a satisfying answer. He responded with an unintentional imitation of her shrug, and watched her as she plummeted her gaze to the marble floor, where a stream of red liquid had formed from the blood that had been dripping from the dressings covering both her feet. "Because—" Bellatrix suddenly heard Harry say, "because, I don't want to live with a guilty conscious for the rest of my life." She didn't respond, and continued to stare indifferently at the ground. She heard him sigh, and then she received the impending question. "Why do you wish to kill yourself?" he had asked.

She shrugged.

Harry's face furrowed with frustration—he knew he was not going to fork out an answer from her so easily. He huffed in— his lips were trembling with anger. "I'm going to go to a Muggle pharmacy to get some alcohol to disinfect those wounds, and some proper bandages—some matches too to lit up a fire," he said, gruffly.

_What's a pharmacy?_ — She thought to herself, as she heard him walk away, the sound of his footsteps soon dimming and dimming until they were non-existent. _And what are matches? —_ She pondered, still shivering with arms wrapped around her chest, and silently gazing down at the pool of blood beneath her feet.

**oOo**

The wind was rushing into his eyes, scraping his eyeballs, he blinked furiously to get a clear image of where he was heading. He glanced around and not a being was to be seen. He continued to march onwards through the pools of water billowing beneath him. His pants had become so wet and cold— they had caused his legs to become numb. Where was Dumbledore? The headmaster had just left him stranded at Grimmauld Place and hadn't returned for hours. He cursed under his breath, as he continued to trudge forwards, wrapping his arms around himself. He was only wearing a shirt made out of thin fabric and equally thin trousers.

He finally arrived at the corner of a street, and found a small convenience store. 'This will do', he thought to himself, pushing the door open with one shivering hand.

He shook his hair, and rubbed his hands together to warm himself up as soon as he had walked in. "Quite cold, innit?" he heard a voice. He looked up, and found an elderly Muggle cashier standing behind a counter. He nodded slowly, placing a forced smile on his face. It had been quite a while since he had spoken to ordinary Muggles—other than his Uncle, Aunt and boorish cousin of course. He gaped for a second at the elderly man, who had a wisp of white hair on his scalp, and a cigarette plucked into his mouth. Harry wondered— how did it feel to be completely unaware of how much trouble the world was truly in? He sighed, wishing for a second to be as oblivious as the Muggle behind the counter.

He began to walk around the aisles, trying to find some alcohol, dressings and matches. "Wha' are yer lookin' fer youn' lad?" he heard the old man's voice.

He turned around, and forced smile on his face once more. "Uh, some alcohol—" he shook his head when he found the man pointing at the liquor behind the counter, "no—no—not that kind. For wounds."

"_Ah_, I see," the man said, walking away from the counter. He seemed awfully happy. Harry assumed he didn't have many customers. The man walked down towards the very end of the aisle Harry was in, and picked up a bottle of alcohol with the cigarette still plucked in his mouth. He turned around and faced Harry. "Wha' else deh yeh need?" he inquired.

"Matches and some dressings," Harry responded abruptly, and then waited patiently for the man to return with what he had asked for. Harry's hands were shoved into his pockets, for he was still cold. Thoughts of Bellatrix swept around his mind, he wondered how she was doing back at Grimmauld Place—

"'ere you go," he heard the man. He glanced around and found him now back behind the counter, and his items beside the cash machine. He began to trek towards the counter, but soon realized that he didn't have any money.

He cursed in his head as he said, "I—uh—I don't have any money. I—"

"It's alright youn' lad," the man replied, smiling warmly at him, "yeh seem distressed." Harry hadn't realized he had looked distraught, he supposed the man— whom was now handing him a plastic bag—had just imagined panic on his face.

"Thank you," Harry responded, as he walked out of the shop.

He found the wind welcoming him with a harsh blow to his face. He growled, as he began to march forwards again, holding firmly to the plastic bag that was flying harshly, hitting his leg every now and then because of the bitter wind. He glanced to his right, and found a slimy figure standing in the alleyway, confused as to what he was seeing, he squinted his eyes and then gasped—

It was an inferius.

The inferius began to march towards him, as if knowing that the boy before him was none other than Harry Potter. Harry squirmed— he didn't have his wand and began to run away, afraid for his life. Not looking back, until—that is—he felt an icy hand grasp his arm. He turned back and shook his hand away, but slipped down onto the ground, and a muffled cry left his lips as his head thumped down on the pavement. He tasted copper—blood had started seeping down his forehead and from his nose. He felt the same icy hand wrap around his leg, and upon feeling it once more—he jolted up from the ground, relying on his survival instinct— smacking the inferius's head with the plastic bag. He watched the inferius land on the ground and once seeing this, he began to storm away again.

The wind was rustling through his dark hair, as he saw the dim outlines of familiar houses reveal through the fog before him, he realized he was near Grimmauld Place, and finally let out a sigh of relief. He arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, panting and wheezing as he did so. The door behind him, as he had expected, closed by itself. He heard a ruckus come from what seemed to be the dining room and he curiously followed the sound, with dried blood plastered on his face.

**oOo**

"KREACHER!" Bellatrix shrieked, throwing the plate across the dining room. The plate formed a dent on the wall in which it had landed. Kreacher had cooked a revolting rodent for her. Her stomach squirmed, as the image of the fried rat stayed glued in her head—she could feel vomit hurling up her throat. Suddenly losing her appetite, she unconsciously decided she would not eat today.

A small and smug smile emerged on the house-elf's face. "Mistress had asked Kreacher to prepare food for Mistress and so Kreacher did," he said. Upon hearing this, Bellatrix felt like choking the little house-elf until his final breath—

She heard a voice.

She turned her face to where it had come from, and found Harry standing at the threshold between the dining room and main corridor with a plastic bag held in his hand, and a face covered with dried blood.

She lifted an eyebrow. "What happened to you?" she asked flatly, and completely unintentionally too, for she didn't want to speak to him.

"Doubt you'd care," Harry responded, and then neared her. "How are your feet?" he asked, stooping down and sitting on his knees, soon lifting her feet, and placing them upon his thighs. Bellatrix was taken aback— she sat completely dumbfounded, watching him with stunned eyes as he grabbed a bottle from the plastic bag he had been holding a minute ago, and began to unwrap the bandages around both her feet. She felt an unusual feeling writhe through her stomach, as she viewed the dried blood that had leaked from his nose and forehead. She felt a desire to shove her hand into her pocket to cleanse his face, but realized she didn't have her wand, and upon realizing this, the thought of wishing to clean his face evaporated in an instant, and was substituted with a desire to inflict a very painful Cruciatus Curse on him.

She continued to watch him. He ripped his shirt and wet it with some kind of clear substance from the bottle that he had taken out of the plastic bag. He began applying it to her feet—

It stung—horribly.

_"What are you doing?_" she hissed, causing Harry to abruptly look up at her, he huffed and didn't reply and continued wiping the dried blood from her feet. Bellatrix hissed and winced, as he continued to apply the substance to her wounds. After wrapping appropriate bandages across both her feet, and being pleased with himself for how well he had done so, he erected from the ground and glared at her with irritated eyes.

"I was disinfecting your feet, not that you would know, since you know nothing about Muggle Science," he replied, flatly. "I've got some matches—they're a Muggle tool used to lit fires. Hold onto me and I'll help you to the nearest fireplace—"

"I'm not a _bloody_ toddler," Bellatrix replied, furiously. "Don't speak to me in such a condescending manner," she spat, her dark eyes ablaze with anger.

"Oh, you can use _big_ words," he said, mockingly. "Last time I heard you in the Department of Mysteries—you were speaking like a_ bloody toddler_!"

She grumbled, Harry stooped down and forced her to wrap her slender arm around the crane of his neck. After doing so, they began to stride towards the nearest fireplace, with her limping by his side. He then gently placed her down on one of the sofas. Her lips were trembling furiously, as she watched him glide a twig on what seemed to be a small cardboard box. To her surprise, the twig's end burst with a flame. She glared at it in awe as Harry then threw it into the fireplace—igniting it at last. Harry then plopped down on the ground, sitting to her right near the fireplace.

The two of them didn't talk to each other as the room gradually began to get warmer. The silence was unnerving and quite uncomfortable for both of them. Bellatrix wriggled in her seat, huffing as she stared at the flames in the fireplace—she thought she had seen Sirius's face form in the flames. And when she had realized she had imagined it, a tear abruptly began to dribble down from one of her dark eyes—

"Why are you crying?" she heard that quite irritating voice.

She didn't respond, and continued to watch the flames. "Why are _you_ here?" she barked.

"This place is co-owned by me, you know?" he responded. "But you didn't answer my question—"

"Why I'm here is none of your concern," she hissed.

The two continued to sit in complete silence again. Harry stared at the flames, remembering how he had once seen Sirius's face in the fireplace at Hogwarts a year ago. He sighed a miserable sigh, then glanced to his left at his killer. She was sitting down on the ornate sofa with her arms wrapped around her chest, staring at the flames with her beautiful dark eyes—he abruptly shook his head upon thinking of her in such a manner.

An hour passed in stillness, and in that hour Harry continued to wonder and ponder over the enigma sitting to his left on the sofa. What had crossed her mind when she had stunned Sirius? He lifted his head and looked straight at her—he had to ask—"What were you thinking when—when you murdered him?" he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper, but Bellatrix had heard him loud and clear through the sound of burning wood in the fireplace.

She stiffened, but continued to stare at the fireplace. Minutes passed, and Harry felt that he would never receive an answer—

"I didn't think," he heard a soft voice, barely a whisper—saturated with pain.

Those three words continued to echo around the room, long after she had uttered them.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed that bit. I've already started on the next chapter. And, once again, your thoughts are welcomed, so please feel free to leave a review, =)_

_P.S—Thank you to those of you who have reviewed my fic anonymously—I'm thanking you here, for I cannot thank you through messaging you privately or any other means for that matter. _

_As for one of the reviewers named 'Guest' who has asked me if Bellatrix has gone through a de-aging potion, my simple and fairly short answer to that would be no. Bella's in her late thirties maybe very early forties, and Madame Promfrey (as mentioned in the third chapter) has given her potions etc. that has caused the effects of Azkaban to disappear from her physical form, but she isn't de-aged in the sense that she's literally gone to being a twenty-something years old. Anyhow, I hope that answers your question. And, I've met plenty women in their late thirties and early forties who seem as though they're forever stuck in their twenties (I had a Spanish teacher I was surprised to hear was forty something. I thought she was in her twenties), but if you any of you want me to implement a de-aging kind of thing in this fic then please let me know, and I'll try my best to somehow put it in. =)_


	6. Nothing's Permanent

**Chapter 6: Nothing's Permanent **

Privet Drive appeared rather peaceful during the dead of night. All were asleep, except for one man, who stood standing before 4 Privet Drive dressed quite oddly. He sported a blue robe, had a very long white beard, and peculiar crescent-moon shaped lenses rested above his crooked nose. This odd man, few knew of in the Muggle world, but all knew of in the Wizarding world, for he was none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore had his wand grasped in his hand, and he was swishing it in front of 4 Privet Drive. Multi-coloured sparks were flying out of its tip, and for some reason these stunning visuals caused a frown to arise on his face. Sighing in, he looked at 4 Privet Drive and its surroundings. After he was sure he wasn't being followed, and that nobody else was awake in the vicinity, he began to stride forwards towards the front door of 4 Privet Drive.

He knocked on it, with his wand now back safely in the pocket of his beautifully adorned robe. He began to wait patiently, his hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes glued on the doormat. "WHO'S THERE?!" his ears caught the voice of Vernon who had shot out of his bed, and was stumbling down the stairs towards the front door in a quite furious form.

The door blasted open.

Dumbledore gazed upwards from the doormat, his eyes were twinkling and his lips were curled into a warm smile. Meanwhile, Vernon glared at him with red-shot eyes, and a face tinted utterly purple. "IT'S YOU!" Vernon spat. "What do you want from us?" he asked, bitterly.

"I will explain, once you let me in," Dumbledore continued to smile warmly, causing Vernon to wriggle in anger.

Vernon moved away from the door and let Dumbledore in without any words of welcome. He pointed at the sofas in his living room with his fat index finger, signalling Dumbledore to be seated there—it was an order, it seemed. Dumbledore sighed, trudged forwards and sat down placidly, while viewing the purple-faced Vernon smack himself down on a nearby sofa. "Now, tell me!" Vernon shouted, his voice indicating hate and anger.

Dumbledore continued to smile. However, his blue eyes weren't sparkling anymore, for they seemed fearful and afraid—not of Vernon's anger—but something else. "I had come to Privet Drive to see if the powerful magical protection casted over it by Lily Potter's—" Vernon was staring at Dumbledore with wide eyes that seemed to be bulging out his sockets, "—protection," Dumbledore continued, "remained here, as you see Harry is now an adult—"

"_What_?" Vernon spat.

"Please let me continue," Dumbledore smiled serenely. "What I'm saying is of great urgent importance. If you care for you life, you will surely listen."

Vernon responded by nodding firmly with his flabby face—his eyes were now no longer bulging out of his face with anger, but now out of fright.

After Dumbledore was sure that Vernon was listening to him attentively, he continued, "Lily Potter—Harry's mother— died saving him. When Harry was given to his aunt—_your_ wife—a magical and very powerful protection was cast over this very home you're in. As long as Harry remained here and wasn't of age, the powerful protection would last. However—"

"_However_ what?" Vernon hissed, he tried to put on a disguise of anger and fury over the fright he was feeling within, but he still appeared like a big panicked hog. He continued to stare at Dumbledore who was just as calm as he was erratic.

"Just two day ago, Harry was taken to his godfather's will-hearing," Dumbledore began. Vernon's eyes bellowed with glee, for he was quite genuinely happy that Harry's godfather had died, since anything that made the boy miserable caused him a great heap of merriment. However, the joy would soon waver from his eyes that were still bulging out his face. Dumbledore continued calmly, "In the will-hearing Harry became an adult in the eyes of the Ministry—_our_ ministry—" Dumbledore corrected when Vernon began to look confused, "—when his godfather proclaimed him as Lord Black."

Vernon looked stumped. "What!" he choked. "What's Lord Black? What are you getting at?" he spluttered.

Dumbledore sighed once more. "It means Harry is the head of a very prominent household in the Wizarding world, and it also means that he is an adult. Just a few minutes ago, I've tried to see if the powerful protection charms casted over this abode were still there, and what I have found is that this house is no longer secure—and as you know Voldemort—" Vernon squirmed in his chair upon hearing Voldemort's name.

"Yeah, what about this _Lord_ _Voldything_?" he quickly asked.

"Voldemort wishes to kill Harry, and though he does not know yet, he will soon find out that your home is no longer protected. It is very dangerous if you remain here—"

"We're not leaving if that's what you're getting at!" Vernon interjected. "Just who do you think you are—coming here in the dead of night, asking me to get out of my own home—telling me all this shenanigan?"

After around an hour or so, it was becoming quite clear to Dumbledore that Vernon was adamant on staying, and that no matter how much he tried to persuade him into leaving, he wouldn't. A sighing Dumbledore lifted himself off the sofa. "Very well," the headmaster whispered under his breath.

Meanwhile, Vernon was still sitting with his face-tinged purple. His lips were pursed into a repulsive sneer, as he stared at Dumbledore with gloating eyes. "I knew it!" he screamed. "You were lying to me!" he shrieked. "Now leave!"

Soon, Dumbledore stood at 4 Privet Drive's threshold once again, while Vernon stared at him with his chubby hand placed firmly on his front door's knob. "Very well then. Good-bye," Dumbledore said with a sigh. For a second, Dumbledore had wished to inform the Ministry, if aurors could perhaps come to the defence of 4 Privet Drive, but after careful thought he knew a handful of aurors would not be able to hold against Voldemort and his Death Eaters for long, and so right after bowing calmly to Vernon he Disapparated out of sight. A very furious Vernon zigzagged backwards at the 'pop' noise caused by Dumbledore's Dissaparation, and then he began to mutter and curse incoherently under his breath, as he finally closed the front door with a bang.

**oOo**

Bellatrix was lying asleep in the ornate sofa she had remained in since yesterday night. Her head was now rested on the armrest, while her feet dangled an inch above the floor—still wrapped in the dressings Harry had covered them with yesterday.

Then suddenly, her eyes parted open with a start; and alas, she knew today would be one of those days. Half-dazed, she composed herself into an upright position on the sofa, while she persisted to hear the cause to her alarmed state: There was a cacophony emerging from what seemed to be the kitchen. Grumbling, she glanced around, comprehending she was in the small study-room she and Harry had spent their night in.

Bellatrix eyed a nearby vacant spot, for she noticed Harry had slept there, as a worn pillow lay there aimlessly. Thus, she initiated to wonder over his whereabouts, though at the same moment, she could care less, all while she persisted to hear the ruckus that seemed to emitting from the Kitchen. She arched an eyebrow in bewilderment, and placed the soles of her feet on the ground, wincing faintly at her wounds that were still fresh, before she hobbled away towards the kitchen.

As she limped towards the kitchen while holding onto the worn walls of Grimmauld Place for support, she noted how the wallpapers on the walls had worn-down like everything else in the dwelling, and then recalled the beautiful dark crimson color the wallpapers had once been. In the main corridor, she noticed how the glass smithereens on the floor had been cleaned up, and she began to ponder if the house-elf – Kreacher - had been responsible.

When she neared the kitchen, as expected, the sound of what seemed to be dishes and cutlery rose in amplitude. Was it Kreacher? She neared the archway of the kitchen, and to her surprise, she spotted a certain young male—Harry Potter—chopping vegetables on one of the eroded limestone counters.

Harry was not aware of her presence as he continued to make breakfast: He was preparing salad, though his stomach grumbled for something more delicious and delectable, but he couldn't afford rich ingredients, for he hadn't the means to go to Gringotts to acquire some galleons out of his vaults; and therefore, he had to do with the Muggle change left in his pockets.

He grimaced, remembering the galleons in his vaults were enough to fill a living room, especially now, since Sirius had left him with quite a substantial amount of wealth…

_Sirius_…

He glanced at one of the two plates he had taken out of a dilapidated cupboard, and had washed pristine clean for Bellatrix… his godfather's killer. Anger rushed through his veins, and he began to slice down with harsher voice, causing huge dents to form on the chopping board when—

"Easy now," he heard a voice he was very well acquainted with, and hearing her swirled complete, utter fury through every inch of his form.

He sighed.

Ignoring Bellatrix, he continued to chop down, finally chopping every piece. He picked up the chopping board, tilted it above one of the two plates he had taken out of the cupboards, and then moved onto the other plate placed besides the one he had now filled, throwing the remaining contents left on the chopping board there. "_Quite_ _charitable_," he heard her speak again, and his hands trembled in fury, as he smacked down the chopping board onto the counter with the knife he had held firmly in his hands – so firmly, his knuckles had turned chalk-white, and blood had still of not yet swarmed to flush them rosy.

"_Why. Are. You. Here?" _he hissed, turning around from the counter and glaring at her with his now very furious eyes.

Bellatrix watched him with an amused expression before her gaze towed away to the two plates of salad he had prepared for the two of them, now placed on the small dining table that could only seat three in the kitchen. Her lips formed into a malicious and mocking grin, and she began to respond: "Well," she began, as though orating a story, "I heard _quite _a ruckus issuing from here – and I trailed it down - finding _you_ here – _chopping_ _vegetables," _she sneered, "and _besides_," she smirked, her lips curling into an even wider arrogant grin, "it seems you have been _awaiting _my arrival," she finished, beckoning at the two plates behind him with her dark eyes.

Harry's face quivered in anger, which, naturally made Bellatrix feel quite elated: Oh, it was so terribly easy for her to anger the boy! Twitching a smirk, while lifting one of her hands away from her chest to brush a curl from her eyes, she asked in her icy voice, "Well, will we not eat?"

A petulant Harry turned around, and marched nearer to a table situated inches away from him, and splatted himself down before it.

Bellatrix clucked her tongue. "Where are you manners, Pottykins? Shan't you usher me into a seat like a gentleman?" she asked, as she limped towards the vacant seat by which her plate of salad was stationed.

Harry squirmed in his seat upon hearing her say 'Pottykins' and Bellatrix noted, curling her lips into a smirk again. She did not know why, but the boy seemed to dreadfully irritate her – perhaps it was because not many dared to challenge and confront her with sarcasm and anger that equaled to hers – for she had been Voldemort's closest lieutenant – and nearly all – both Death Eaters and members of the Order alike had been terrified of her – 'but _him_,' she began to ruminate while watching Harry, as he gurgled down water bitterly after choking on some lettuce that had been jammed in his throat, as he hadn't been chewing properly on his food, being far too in an angry composure – '_he_ doesn't seem afraid of me,' she finished her thought.

And that dreadfully frustrated her.

They did not speak or utter a word to one another for what seemed to be minutes – their ears only caught the sound of theirs forks that clicked and clunked on their plates, as they angrily and bitterly shoved their vegetables in them – venting their frustration. Their plates had been heavily scratched by the time they finished eating.

Both were still completely and terribly hungry, though they didn't openly admit it. Harry gazed up from his now empty plate to Bellatrix, who was fiddling with her fork – her stomach was grumbling in protest for more food – though at the same time her mind was not, as it had managed into evoking to Bellatrix bittersweet recollections of the times she had shared with Sirius…

Sirius had been the only one in the world who had ever _truly _cared for – her lips faintly quavered though Harry had not noticed –'and I killed him,' she ruminated, her heart had begun to feel heavy again—

Meanwhile, Harry continued to stare at the enigma sitting before him. He noted that she seemed to be in a cooler composure than the state she had been in yesterday, 'and the day before that,' he thought to himself, recalling the fiery fit she had thrown, while he had pinned her down to the ground in attempt to stop her from committing suicide. 'Perhaps—," he began to think, "she'll be calm enough to side-along Apparate me into the Burrow," he finished his hopeful musing. The thought had occurred to him early this morning, but he had shoved it into the furthest reaches of his mind, deeming it as unrealistic – there was a '_fat chance_' she'd aid him. He also noticed that Bellatrix didn't seem interested in leaving Grimmauld Place, and buying a new wand. She hadn't mentioned or appeared to have a desire to get a new one at all, and seemed _far_ too in an apathetic state – for a split second, he wondered why. Thus, he quickly comprehended that he couldn't really persuade her into side-along Apparating him into Diagon Alley either.

Nonetheless, while feeling like a complete idiot – he eagerly voiced his hopeful, but absurd initial contemplation aloud, though knowing fully well how unrealistic it would be if she obliged to it, and side-along Apparated him near the Burrow (for the Burrow had anti-apparition spells, he had quickly remembered) —

He soon realized he shouldn't have done it.

"I am not your transportation - to use like a _mule - _Potter!" Bellatrix hissed, her cool composure had deflated in an instant. Anger was rushing through her veins: What had this boy deemed her to be? A magical carriage he could wish upon whenever he wished to go somewhere? She lifted herself off the chair, and began to limp furiously out of the kitchen. Though she would never acknowledge it, she hadn't been angered so much by what Harry had said. Rather, she had been angered, for he had interrupted her while she had been engrossed in a very vivid memory she had shared with Sirius. and this memory had erupted from her mind the moment she had heard 'his _blasted_ voice!_'_ she grumbled in her head.

Harry growled, as he rose himself from the chair he had been sitting on, and picked up the two plates to wash them. No sooner had he picked the plates up, he had dropped them purposefully onto one of the counters, leaving them there deserted, for he saw no reason to clean them. Suddenly, he heard the front-door creak open - "Kreacher!" Harry screamed, "Is that you?" he asked, but was not met with any response from the deranged house-elf.

"_Harry? _Is that you?_" _Harry heard a familiar female voice blast into Grimmauld Place. A sudden flurry of warmth tingled from his head to his toes, and a grin flashed over his face.

"Tonks!" he screamed in merriment, quickly marching towards the main corridor, where he saw a woman turn around to him with a warm and friendly smile painted on her face. Harry, however, quickly noticed that her hair was still a mousey-brown, and that her face had paled tremendously from the last time he had seen her. "Are you okay?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

She didn't respond to what he had asked. "Dumbledore's sent me to pick you up — he told us not to worry about your whereabouts - said you were fine - but I was still dreadfully worried about you. Is Bellatrix here —"

"_I am_ _here," _Harry heard a hiss issue from behind Tonks. He growled, as he spotted a head full of black curls in the main corridor. It seemed Bellatrix had still not been able to reach her desired destination at Grimmauld Place, for she was holding the wall with one hand, leaning on it - as though she had been limping a moment ago.

The Metamorphmagus had turned around immediately upon hearing Bellatrix's voice. "Bell—" she gasped, "Wha—" she stopped mid-way, not being able to finish what she had initiated to say, as her eyes darted down to Bellatrix's robe that had been stained red and ripped at its ends, and then the bandages that Harry had wrapped around her feet.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Tonks swiftly neared her, seized her arm and placed it around her neck. "I was extremely worried about you," she said warmly, but Bellatrix hadn't appeared to hear - or if she had - she hadn't cared if Tonks had been worried sick or not. The Metamorphmagus continued, not giving up on starting a conversation with her aunt—"Where's your wand? Why didn't you heal yourself with it?" she asked.

That seemed to have caught Bellatrix's attention. "Why don't you ask _him_?"

"What's going on?" Tonks howled, as she walked down the main corridor, and finally arrived at the living room of Grimmauld Place - still holding onto Bellatrix while Harry followed her behind.

_"She broke my wand_,_" _Harry spat.

"_Wait_ - what? _Why_?" she inquired, her voice harboring bewilderment and confusion, as she set a snappish Bellatrix down onto a sofa.

Shortly, she noticed that her aunt and Harry had begun what seemed to be a staring contest of who could force the most loath into their eyes. Tonks sighed, and kneeled down - casting a charm over Bellatrix's feet, healing them in less than a minute. "Now — how'd it happen?" Tonks asked the impending question, as she rose from the ground.

"Aunt Walburga's Portrait," Harry responded with a snicker, breaking eye-contact with Bellatrix.

"What?" Tonks inquired, quite intrigued. "I thought there had been a Permanent Sticking Charm cast over it."

Bellatrix's gaze was settled on her freshly healed feet. "Nothing's permanent…" she said impassively, in a voice barely above a whisper, her words indicating to more than just the portrait that she had somehow managed to remove from the wall and break.

Harry suddenly remembered the tear that had driveled from her eye when they had been sitting by the fireplace. He had heard her whisper something he could still not fathom— _"I didn't think," _he had heard her say softly, when he had asked her what she had been thinking of when she had murdered Sirius. What she had said had entranced him in his sleep. He had not been able to think of anything else through all night - those three words had become parasitic - had consumed all his other thoughts, until the only thoughts that had remained had revolved around them. And now, just when he had forgotten about those three words, she had said _this—_

What had she meant by 'Nothing's permanent'? Harry began to reflect—

Tonks suddenly spun him out of his thoughts. "It's not safe to be without a wand for long these days. We should get a wand for both of you two right now. Come, let's go!" she smiled, trying her best to lighten the mood, though she quickly noticed that her efforts had been in vain - Harry seemed to be lost in his thoughts, quite hushed and quiet, while Bellatrix was in a similar temperament.

* * *

_Author's Note: So here's the next chapter. When I copy-pasted this to Doc Manager, for some reason some of the words no longer had spaces. I tried my best to fix it, so sorry if there's still words that don't have spaces between them. Anyway, hope to hear your thoughts. I'm starting on the next chapter -hopefully- soon. :)_

_EDIT: I had added the chapter that had been the rough draft by accident, and later on I realized I had done so, so I replaced it with this one. I've looked over this chapter once or twice, and have fixed any mistakes/errors that I've noticed. And thank you 'Guest' for pointing out the word 'dreadfully' has been repeated a few times in several paragraphs, I've changed that—you're right it read funny. _


	7. McLaughlin's Used Wands

**Chapter 7: McLaughlin's Used Wands**

Diagon Alley was not as cheerful as Harry had remembered it to have once been. People were clustered close together with their families in groups – glancing around with cautious and frightful eyes. As Harry observed his surroundings, he recalled the Diagon Alley he had visited years ago – when he had been only eleven and had first set his eyes on it. It had been a wonderful place – bursting with life, but now it was grim and grey – dead with an ambiance of fear.

Harry noted that everyone that looked his way – looked with eyes befuddled in surprise that would soon turn into loath. He had been accustomed to having people stare at him pleasantly or with hate, but he had never had so many people stare at him before. Every individual he passed by had their eyes glued on the figure that trudged beside him – Bellatrix, and then their eyes glided towards his way and Tonks. Of course, it was completely rational for people to stare so at Bellatrix Black –formerly Lestrange just a meager few days ago. Nevertheless, Harry couldn't help but feel uncomfortable and slightly enraged too, because he didn't want people to assume that he in any form or way associated with the notorious witch (who seemed to be quite apathetic towards the impertinent glowers people were throwing her way).

Soon enough, the group of three began to stroll by Ollivianders Wandshop. They had already known it would be closed, and so they were heading for McLaughlin's Used Wands instead. As they walked past the shop, Bellatrix viewed a wooden board that had 'closed' written on it in black calligraphy, placed in front of the shop's grimy front-window. She could only see faint outlines of cardboard boxes that held wands of all kinds within them through the window.

She suddenly began to recall the first time she had entered Ollivianders with her _father_. She had been, of course, eleven like every witch and wizard when she had been obtaining her first wand. Her heart had been racing, as she had viewed the pilasters of cardboard boxes that held wands of every kind within them. She recalled how she had desperately wanted to flee — she had been so frightened that the type of wand that would select her would disappoint her father—

And he had been disappointed.

The walnut wand that Harry had broken, had not been the wand that had chosen her. It had been the wand that her father had selected, after he had deemed it as a worthier wand than the one that had designated her as its master. Bellatrix could not even evoke to mind what wood and core type the wand that had selected her had been, for her father had quickly yanked it out of her hands. Her body inadvertently winced, as she remembered her father's cold hard face, and his fingers as they had brushed along her palms when he had taken the wand out of her hold – she had not noticed that she had winced, but Harry had.

Harry was bewildered as he stared at the dark-haired witch who strolled between him and Tonks - why had she winced? He began to wonder, while Tonks raised her finger to point at a corner-store that seemed quite uninviting. "That's McLaughlin's – course his wands aren't new – they're used wands," the Metamorphmagus began, "but it's all we've got – all of Ollivianders branches are closed." Harry observed McLaughlin's, and noted that he had never seen the shop before. "Everyone else who wants a new wand has to order one from other countries. It takes a hefty mount of time to order a wand, and you two need your wands _immediately_ considering the fact that — well you know — since your names are probably the first ones on You-Know-Whose hit-list," she finished.

Tonks strolled forwards, and opened the front door of McLaughlin's with one hand. Harry and Bellatrix soon followed her in. As soon as the three of them had stepped inside the shop, a blast of dust winged into their nostrils, and they began to cough riotously. Bellatrix squinted her eyes, and blinked a few times to clear her eyes of dust before absorbing her new surroundings.

The place was as much unorganized as Ollivianders was ordered – there were cardboard boxes that probably held used wands within them, stacked on top of each other sloppily. At the very end of the shop, Bellatrix noticed an elderly man with a head full of grey hair rummaging through a few piles of the boxes.

"Ahem," Bellatrix suddenly heard Tonks speak. The man turned around immediately on hearing Tonks's voice. A thin smile surfaced on his face. He didn't seem dazed or taken aback by seeing the 'notorious' Bellatrix Black. His expression was in blunt contrast to that of the multitude of people whom had set their eyes on her, while she, Harry and Tonks had been walking through the streets of Diagon Alley.

"_Ah_," he began, smiling warmly, "what may I owe this pleasure to?" he asked, holding firmly onto his crane as he hobbled forwards from the end of the aisle he had been standing at, and neared them

"Wands," Harry responded, resentfully. He suddenly discerned, that he did not have any sort of desire to get a new wand. Letting go of a broken wand, was like letting go of a dead loved one and moving on –

Sirius.

He tensed, as he reeled his head around to his left where Bellatrix stood. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, and her eyes were vacant and expressionless. She was beholding and absorbing her surroundings with her dark eyes, quite quietly. She had been this way – quiet and expressionless - since an hour or two ago, around the time Tonks had asked her how she had managed to break the Permanent Sticking Charm that had been placed on Aunt Walburga's portrait.

"Ah, I see – of course – of course," the elderly shop owner's voice reeled Harry out of his thoughts. Harry's green eyes fleeted around to where he had heard him. He found the old man standing right before him, with his hand held out.

Harry smiled at the elderly man, and quickly took his hand in his and shook it. The man grinned in return, and then removed his hand from his hold and beamed at Bellatrix, but she stared at him blankly. However, the man didn't seem to mind or be offended by her conduct towards him. He rotated around to Tonks and gave her the same smile that he had given both to Harry and Bellatrix.

Tonks grinned warmly at him. "So who is it out of you three that is need of a wand?" he asked her.

She weakly chortled. "Oh, I'm afraid it's not me who needs a wand – it's _them_ two," she said, pointing at Bellatrix and Harry with her eyes.

''Would you like go first, madam?" the elderly shop owner asked. Bellatrix glared with scrutinizing eyes at the old man – as if sifting him to see if he was trustworthy or not, in all her years that she had spent serving the Dark Lord she had become aware of the hypocrisy and duplicity of human beings. "I don't want a used wand," she finally responded, icily. "_He_ can go first if he wishes to," she said sourly, glaring at Harry with her dark eyes that simmered in fury whenever they landed on him. Tonks had grimaced at Bellatrix's response. It had taken great amount of energy on her part to persuade Bellatrix into coming along with her and Harry to Diagon Alley to get a wand.

"Ah," the shop owner began, "I've been accustomed to such a response. But madam, in such times – it is a simply a _necessity_ to have a wand by your side at all times." The elderly man waited for Bellatrix to respond, but she didn't. She was staring around the shop with an apathetic demeanor. Harry felt offended by how Bellatrix had acted with the clearly warm, kind-hearted shop owner, and so he turned around to the man, and smiled at him warmly – in order to apologize on Bellatrix's behalf. However, he noted once again that the man did not seem a bit offended or upset by her conduct towards him.

Harry watched the elderly man as he began to speak once more to Bellatrix – "Many doubt that an old and used wand can compare well to a new one – but they are wrong. You see, back – _very_ _long ago_ – wands were not made in the rate they are today, mainly because old and used wands were much more in demand. Old wands are much more powerful and useful – as you see a wand only gets better as it is used – much like how one can sing better if they continued to perfect and use their vocal chords," the elderly man paused, and while he did, Harry noted that what he had said had caught Bellatrix's interest. The man continued, "Of course, as people began to focus more on appearances and less on performance – the demand for old wands greatly weakened," he finished off, a bit bitterly – indirectly explaining why Ollivianders ancestral business had outpaced his.

"Alright," Bellatrix hesitantly began, "I would like a wand then…"

"_Brilliant!_" the shopkeeper exclaimed. "To get a head start – what wand-core and wand-wood was your old wand?"

Harry noted that Bellatrix had suddenly stiffened. Her eyebrows had furrowed, and her eyes had begun to form an expression as though she was remembering a distressing memory. "The wand that I had before had not chosen me_, _it had been chosen by my _father," _she said with her usual emotionally vacant voice – though Harry had caught her say the word 'father' with a bitter ting.

"Ah, I see…" the man began, "…then we must start from scratch! Please, do as I say," he said to Bellatrix, who clearly did not seem to appreciate being ordered around.

The three of them watched the elderly man walk to his shop's front-desk. "Come here, please," he said to Bellatrix, as he removed a box that had been seated inside one of its drawers.

Bellatrix neared the counter, and she viewed the man place the large box onto the desk. She noted there were around thirty or so wands inside the box. "These are not yet wands. They're woods only – they do not have a core yet. They're samples to narrow down your 'true' wand," he said. "Please, pick up each one individually – you'll know on your own which wand wood is your 'true' type." Bellatrix nodded, and soon placed her slender white hand into the box. She lifted a walnut wand-wood, believing that it would be her true wand-wood, since she had used a walnut wand for years.

The elderly man quickly shook his head. "No—" he hastily began, "I do not believe that's the wand-wood for you!" Bellatrix felt the elderly man's fingers brush on the skin of her palms, as he quickly removed the wand-wood from her hold. Suddenly, she remembered her father's fingers as they had brushed against her palms, when he had removed the wand that had selected her as its master.

Meanwhile, Harry (who had been standing still next to Tonks) noticed how Bellatrix's eyes had lingered for a second too long on her palm that had been holding the wand-wood. "I… I had a walnut wand," he heard her speak. Her voice had been soft – the way he had heard it when they had been in front of the fireplace, and also just a few hours ago when she had said, 'Nothing's permanent'. However, Bellatrix had quickly returned to her usual demeanor. Harry watched her, as she continued to pick up each wand-wood — holding it in her hands for a few seconds, then plopping it down onto the desk in the growing pile of wand-woods.

Finally, the only wand-wood left in the box was hawthorn. She slid her hand into the box, and her slender fingers curled around the wand-wood. Suddenly, she felt warmth tingle from her fingers up to her arm. A faint smile flickered on her face for a few seconds – Harry had noticed the smile and so had the elderly man – though she herself hadn't. "Ah," the man kindly grinned. "your wand-wood?"

"Yes, I presume," she replied coolly, the smile untraceable on her now cold-face.

The elderly man grasped the hawthorn wand-wood from her hand, and placed it back into the ornate box it had been in a moment ago. While all this occurred, Harry had the image of the warm smile that had flickered for a millisecond on Bellatrix's face glued in his mind – he did not understand why it was there, and he tried his best to force it out.

The elderly man swished his wand, and suddenly three cardboard boxes came into view on top of the front-desk, replacing the ornate wooden box that held all the wand-woods. The man opened the three cardboard boxes, and removed the wands that had been placed individually in each of them. "Please try these three first – to narrow down your hawthorn wand's core-type," he said warmly, gesturing Bellatrix with a swift motion of his aged hand to try them.

Bellatrix nodded, and began to pick up one of the three wands. Although, she felt the familiar warm feeling rush through the tips of her fingers – the man shook his head. She dropped the wand onto the desk, and picked up the other one with her slender white hand, but the elderly man began to shake his head again – and so it was quite apparent that the wand-core that her wand would have would be of the remaining wand left on the desk. Slowly, she lowered her slender hand, and her ivory-skinned fingers wrapped around the wand — a faint spark of white light flashed out of the wand's end.

The elderly man's face flashed in delight. He seized the wand from her hand and said, "Dragon heartstring! Ah, a very powerful core-type! Especially well-suited for extravagant and powerful spells!"

Bellatrix recalled that her old wand (though it had been made out of walnut) had also had a dragon heartstring as its core. She watched the man curiously, as he then incanted another spell. All the hawthorn wands that had dragon heartstrings as their cores appeared on top of the counter, and the three wands she had previously picked up vanished before her eyes. "Please, pick up each wand!" the man smiled.

Bellatrix nodded weakly, and began to pick up each wand, and with each wand she picked she found the elderly man shaking his head. At last, she had run through every wand, and had arrived to the very last wand that she had not as of yet picked up. The wand hadn't been put into a cardboard box. It had been positioned in a glass encasement. She looked up at the man with a tilted eyebrow lifted in curiosity, and noticed that he had a faint frown on his usually warm and upbeat face. The man opened the glass box with a trembling hand, as she neared it.

Her eyes were glued on the wand for a minute or two. It had 'A.F' carved on it horizontally in simple handwriting – perhaps by the individual whom the wand had belonged to when he or she had been a child. She dropped her lean hand into the glass box, and her fingertips brushed the wand for a second or two. A very warm feeling that was quite pleasant thundered through her, as her fingers touched the wand, but she suddenly backed her hand away.

There was something familiar about the wand.

She quickly swept the irrational thought aside, and placed her hand into the box. Her fingers curled along the wand, and she lifted it from its glass encasement. She glared at the 'A.F' carved on it, but her attention suddenly changed directions when red-green-blue sparks began to fly wildly everywhere from the wand.

"How peculiar," she unexpectedly heard the elderly man mumble. Bellatrix turned around to view him, and watched from the corner of her eyes, as the sparks emitting from the tip of the wand she was holding ceased to stop. The elderly man did not have to explain that the wand had chosen her, it was very apparent that it had – "This wand you're holding," he began, "belonged to Alice Longbottom."

Her firm hold on the wand wavered. Her legs began to feel weak – images of Alice's distressed and agonized face, as she incanted Crucio upon Crucio flashed through her mind. Her bosom began to rise and deflate harshly, she quickly threw the wand back into the glass box, took a few steps back, and began to shake her head. Harry watched with large eyes, as her expressionless eyes began to burn with something he couldn't comprehend. "_No_," he heard her croak, "_it can't be."_

"I had received it after you – after Alice Longbottom had turned mentally unbalanced. Augusta Longbottom – my dear friend - had given me this wand, because I had always told Alice, her daughter-in-law, how beautifully carved it had been, and how much I would have loved to have it in my wand collection. Augusta had informed me that Alice had said to her that she would have liked me to have the wand – if anything ever occurred to her and she could no longer use it," the man's face had morphed into an expression that Harry could understand – _pure __loath_. Though, the man tried his best to remain in his calm and warm demeanor, Harry could tell that he did not like the notion of Bellatrix having Alice's wand— and neither did Harry. "I do not know why – but this wand has come here out of its own accord – it was locked quite safely and securely at my home with my other collections—"

"You can have _the_ wand," Bellatrix interjected. "I _don't_ want it!"

"_No_ – this wand has chosen you. It is yours now," the man beamed, his face suddenly lightening back into a warmer manifestation.

Bellatrix gaped with alarm at the wand she had thrown back into the glass box. As she stared at the wand in the box, the elderly man began to explain to her the attributes of it, "Hawthorn wands are quite strange and contradictory, as full as paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death," he said, "they are quite complex and intriguing — more often than not so are their owners. They are wands that are particularly adept at curses though they are very suited to healing magic as well." Bellatrix turned around and viewed the elderly man with a arched eyebrow, she had her arms wrapped around her bosom — her bosom was still rising and deflating riotously.

_"Please — I have a son — a baby!" Alice pleaded_—

She shook her head, thrusting the memory as best as she could into the furthest reaches of her mind.

Harry watched her with confusion and interest, while he listened to the elderly man return to describing the features of the wand —Neville's mother's wand, "Hawthorn wands seem most at home with an individual that is passing through a period of unrest or a person with a conflicted nature…" Was Bellatrix passing through a period of turmoil? Harry could not help but wonder. He looked around at Tonks, and noticed that she too seemed to be just as interested as he was in what she had heard the elderly man say. "… Hawthorn wands also have a peculiarity; their spells can – when badly handled – backfire, thus it is very important for a hawthorn wand to only be given to a witch or wizard of proven talent — but I am sure madam, that you are quite capable at handling a hawthorn wand," the man smiled, and soon reeled his head around to Harry, while Bellatrix absorbed all the knowledge he had given her on the wand.

"It is your turn, young man," the shopkeeper said to Harry, and then began to walk towards the glass box stationed on the counter. He grasped the wand Bellatrix had thrown into it feverishly, strolled back and gave it to her. Her hand hesitantly grabbed the wand from his hold, and her eyes glided over the 'A.F' that had been engraved over it horizontally in child's handwriting – when Alice had been a child she had carved her name on the wand.

Another half an hour or so passed by, and the elderly man had taken the same steps to find Harry's new wand. The wand that had chosen him was a yew wand — Voldemort's wand had been made out of yew. He began to breathe harshly – the old man had caught on. "Yew wands are among the rarer kind; and their ideal matches are likewise unusual. Yew wands are best suited for spells that revolve around the Dark Arts – but that does not mean the owner may be Dark. The wizard or witch best suited to a yew wand tends to be quite a fierce protector of others – especially their loved ones. Wands made out of yew have been found in the possession of heroes quite as often as villains. Do _not_ think young man that you will turn Dark because of a wand – that is nonsensical," the man finished.

Harry gave a nervous laugh and nodded his head jaggedly. "I had a holly wand before," he mumbled. "Why is it that a yew wand has chosen me now?"

"Ah, holly and yew are _quite_ alike – _quite_ alike," he mumbled, "but I have been studying wand-woods and wand-cores for years – and I do believe that the wand you're now holding is your 'true' wand. Olliviander stopped selling yew wands, because he had given You-Know-Who one. He was afraid of having another individual in possession of such a wand-wood that is greatly adept at the Dark Arts. Nevertheless, you asked why the holly wand had chosen you. The holly wand was your second-best wand. Meaning, it was the wand most suitable to your nature after the one you're currently holding."

Harry watched the elderly man turn around to Bellatrix, and then back to him. "I find it quite peculiar that the wand you're holding and the wand in madam's possession," he referred to Bellatrix, "are both brother-wands. They both have their cores taken from the same dragon..." he let the information sink in, and then continued onto mumble, "interesting – quite interesting."

'_Great'_ Harry said in his head, as he stared at the yew wand that he held with a tight hold. Why did he always have someone else with a wand that had the same wand core as his? And always – they _always_ had to be people he deplored! He grimaced, and turned around to Bellatrix, who had been far too lost in thought to have noticed that the elderly man had said that she and Harry had brother-wands.

Soon enough, Tonks had paid the elderly man. She turned around to Harry, "Harry, school's starting soon. Since we're already here at Diagon Alley– we might as well do your school shopping." Harry blandly nodded in response, and Tonks beheld him as he stared back at his wand with furrowed eyebrows. Tonks turned her view to Bellatrix who seemed spaced-out and rather adrift in her thoughts. Bellatrix's soft-featured face was now converted into its usual empty mien, while her large and dark eyes were glazed with a bearing that Tonks could not gauge — Tonks found it quite strange that Bellatrix's and Harry's wands had turned out to be brother-wands, but she quickly brushed the thought aside, swiftly reckoning it as just a mere coincidence and nothing more.

* * *

_Author's Note: So here's chapter 7. I hope you enjoyed this bit. Please feel free to leave a review, and tell me what you think of my work. I won't be updating so quickly anymore, because - well - of the blasted thing called school. However, I will *try* my best to update twice or once a week, but I still have to finish reading the Deathly Hallows, so you may find that I'll be gone for a few days or so to finish reading it in order to continue this story. However, I do believe that I will complete chapter 8 this week and upload it sometime next week (during the weekend, hopefully). _

_P.S — To 'Guest', I've already written this in my previous chapter, but I will do so here as well in case you haven't read it. I fixed the paragraphs where 'dreadfully' had been written far too much - you're right, after I had re-read the chapter I too came to the conclusion that it read 'oddly'. _


	8. Hello Draco

**Chapter 8: Hello Draco**

Harry had secured the yew wand he had been given moments ago in his pocket. He was striding forwards through Diagon Alley once more, trailing Tonks who seemed to have taken the lead. He lifted his gaze upwards, and found only a few shards of the sun's rays reveal through the grey and murky sky. He sighed, the weather had been terrible for the past few days, and the robe he currently wore did not shield him at all from the skin-piercing wind whooshing around him; the temperature had become terribly cold.

He shivered, and reflexively shoved his hands into his pockets. He glanced to his right, where he found a festoon of black curls tousled into a mess – the wind was rustling through them. He lifted an eyebrow in curiosity, as he watched the individual whom the dark curls belonged to; Bellatrix's gaze was settled low on the ground, and though it was dreadfully cold she did not seem to mind it; she was far too adrift in her thoughts to really notice it in the first place.

Harry began to contemplate; what could she possibly be thinking of? He recalled the delirious act she had thrown just a few minutes ago in McLaughlin's; could she possibly be remorseful, for what she had done to Neville's parents?

No – the thought was absurd — simply absurd.

With his hands still shunted in his pockets, and fingers wrapped around his yew wand, he glanced away from Bellatrix around to the people who were regarding him. Again, he noticed how their eyes would skate from viewing him to looking at Bellatrix (who sluggishly walked beside him). Harry noted once more that Bellatrix did not seem to care an ounce for how people perceived her. Inadvertently, he began to admire her for her ability to be so apathetic towards others and what they thought of her; but he immediately stopped his thoughts of veneration upon realizing them – he could not, and did not wish to respect the witch in any form or way.

She was a ruthless, callous murderer.

Harry deemed Dumbledore to be foolish for having saved her after Voldemort's fiasco at the Department of Mysteries. But, then again – Dumbledore was merely fulfilling Sirius's wish…

Suddenly (for a short-lived second), Harry wondered: If he had been in Dumbledore's shoes, would he too have obliged to Sirius's quite alarming wish – his last wish before he had died – before the woman that he had wished to keep safe and away from harm had _murdered_ him?

Harry did not know, and he didn't want to know.

Memories of the day at the Department of Mysteries flounced into his mind; he recalled Bellatrix – her face had been uncaring, merciless and cold. She had been fleeing from the scene, while he had held his wand firmly in his hand, running after her. He had wished to inflict her with the Cruciatus Curse – the curse that she was so proficient at perpetrating – the curse that had caused Neville's parents to embrace insanity – the curse that had caused Alice's wand to now be positioned in _her_ pocket.

He had used _that_ curse on her; but it had been a feeble and pathetic attempt at debilitating her.

_"You have to mean them, Potter!" _she had said, after he had merely knocked her off her feet with it. It seemed that he hadn't truly meant to inflict her with the curse—but why?

Harry quickly propelled his thoughts away, and dropped his gaze down to his feet. He wore sneakers that had turned quite tatty; he had been wearing them for around the past week or so, around-the-clock. His green eyes lingered on his sneakers for a while. He did not want to think – he contemplated the brick-ground he sluggishly strode on, driving his mind into a Buddha-like state.

Except, his mind did not remain that way for long.

A thought budged in – another thought budged in – until he began to think again; his thoughts centered on the mystery that strode beside him. His eyebrows crumpled, as he marched onwards in an autopilot-like mode, following Tonks, unaware of where he was heading.

He noticed that Bellatrix, like him, was silent and hushed, as though she was living in her mind (as he was at the moment). He noted that she too, like him, had her slender hands shoved into the pockets of her robe, as she trudged forwards. Her dark eyes were glued to the ground; for a split second, he sought to look at her eyes; see what she was feeling in them – grasp why she was so dreadfully confusing – so hard to discern…

"You'll need some new robes—you've grown plenty during summer!" he heard a familiar voice that tottered him out of his contemplations; it had been Tonks. He lifted his gaze from the ground and viewed her; she was standing in front of him and Bellatrix. Her current mousey-brown hair dithered with the harsh wind, as she stared at the wooden sign that said 'Madam Malkins'; scripted in immaculate calligraphy. The wooden sign hung on an iron rail outside the tailoring shop, above its pristinely clean front-windows. Suddenly, Harry remembered the very first time he had been to the shop; he had met Draco there for the first time; thus, it had also been the first time he had been introduced to the blood-supremacy extremism that prevailed among the aristocratic, and elite families in the Wizarding world; like the Blacks.

_Bellatrix Black._

Was she still chauvinistic? She surely had to be, it had only been a few months since she had presumably been ousted from Voldemort's group of devotees – _'If she has been that is', _Harry began to wonder.

What if she still supported Voldemort? Maybe she was two-timing? Besides, Harry had not felt the scar on his forehead burn as it typically did whenever Voldemort felt abysmal ire; and surely, Voldemort ought be infuriated, since who he had perceived to be his most trusted lieutenant had betrayed him?

_'Or has she?' _Harry pondered.

"Well, wachya waitin' for Harry?" he heard Tonks again — he gazed up at her in alarm, once more feeling flabbergasted for being spun out of his thoughts so suddenly; he grumbled in his head, while he watched the Metamorphmagus smile weakly at him.

The Metamorphmagus speculated over why Harry seemed so lost and woozy — Bellatrix also appeared to be in a similar condition; she was standing a few inches behind Harry, her dark hair flying wildly with the wind, while she had her eyes pasted listlessly on the ground. Tonks turned around, and strolled forwards into the tailoring shop; pushing the door with one hand, and shortly hearing a bell chime. Soon enough, she heard two more rings that signified Harry and Bellatrix were closely behind.

Harry lifted an eyebrow, as he gazed around the shop to find the tailor, Madam Malkin; but she was nowhere to be seen. There were racks and rolls of fabric lined in columns behind the front-desk of the shop. An ornate Persian carpet lay on the wooden floor; there were a few sofas situated in front of the counter, and opposite the front-window; Bellatrix had seated herself in one of the sofas. Her legs were crossed, and she had herself turned around by a few degrees, so that she could look outside the window while sitting down in her seat. Her face entertained an expression that roared with ennui – though at the same time Harry wasn't so sure; he couldn't really tell what she was thinking of – her face was always so blank, and her eyes bearing an expression hard to comprehend. He observed the silky navy blue robe she wore; it was knee-length, and it hung loosely from her waist and downwards, but was rather snug around her bosom. His eyes traveled down to her legs. They were milky-white and smooth; for a split second, he had his eyes fastened on them. However, he hastily turned his eyes away, once he noticed where he had been looking.

Suddenly, he heard a voice, and it caused every nerve in his body to go haywire.

Abruptly and swiftly, he swung his head around to where it had issued. A boy with a pointed face, and white-blonde hair drew out of one of the racks. He was wearing a beautiful, long green robe, and was walking towards a large mirror to see how he appeared with his usual arrogant strut. '_Malfoy_!' Harry hissed in his mind; his hands had unconsciously turned into fists.

**oOo**

Bellatrix was gazing outside the window in a mannerism that screamed with boredom. Her striking dark eyes watched groups march by through the brick-streets of Diagon Alley. Her exquisite face washed over with a snidely smirk whenever someone noticed her. More often than not, their faces would morph into terrified expressions; seeing them so, dreadfully amused her, but also diverted her attention from what had occurred to her just a scanty few minutes ago in McLaughlin's. She felt the used hawthorn wand (what had been Alice's wand) in the side-pocket of a robe she had filched from one of the many closets that had belonged to Aunt Walburga in Number 12; the wand was situated against the thin-film of her pocket, she could feel it against her thigh. For a momentary second, she wondered how Alice had reacted on receiving her first wand – '_this_ _wand'_ – when she had been a child. Alice had probably touched the wand currently in her pocket more than a thousand times; from her first day at Hogwarts, all the way to the day before she could no longer incant even the simplest charm with it – because she had lost her sanity.

Bellatrix shuddered inadvertently, and quickly hurled the taxing thoughts away. She let out a faint sigh (again unconsciously) and turned her face away from the window (from which on the other side, people were hurrying quickly past upon seeing her through it). To her displeasure, she found a tall young male standing rigid with his back towards her: it was Harry. His hair was the disheveled mess that it always was. _'Does he ever use a comb?'_ she speculated with a grumble.

Suddenly, she froze in her seat.

She could hear her heartbeat rise – rise – rise; her eyes enlarged too with her escalating pulse, while perspiration gathered around her ivory palms. _'Calm down!'_ she ordered herself ruthlessly, as she watched a boy with a pale pointed face emerge out of a path hidden by piles of fabric and racks. He hadn't noticed her, nor had he noticed Tonks or Harry (as of yet), as he walked towards a mirror to assess how he looked. "Mother," Bellatrix soon heard her nephew say, "I think the blue robe looked better," he finished. Then, he began to turn around, his grey eyes first landed on Harry – a malicious and arrogant smirk (that would not last long) smeared across his face. He was about to say something supercilious, when his eyes settled on Tonks.

Tonks was leaning beside the front door of the tailoring shop. She threw a loathing look his way. Draco's smirk vacillated a bit, as he recalled that the woman before him was his estranged cousin, and her mother was his disowned aunt; _'Blood-traitors!' _he grumbled in his head. Then, he swiftly turned his face back to Harry to say what he had initially wished – when suddenly; from the corners of one of his eyes, he spotted a tousle of shiny black curls.

Meanwhile, Bellatrix beheld Draco with her dark eyes - stunned for a moment at his sudden appearance. She watched his pointed face as it began to rotate. His vexing and arrogant smirk began to falter, until it ripped off his face – he had now fully revolved around to view her.

She stared into his grey eyes with her dark ones; both she and he were flabbergasted for a splitting moment. Then, she flung a thin malicious smirk to him; only a faint smirk was needed for him to totter backwards. She grinned snidely again on seeing him so disturbed. "_Hello, Draco_," she said, silkily.

Draco did not respond; Harry felt his lips arch into a dim sneer, as he beheld him act so pathetically—Tonks had also been amused.

As all this transpired, Madam Malkin's plump and petite form arose from behind one of the racks; she was completely unaware of what was going on in her environs for a few seconds, until her eyes landed on the scene before her. Her hold on her wand began to dither while a woman surfaced behind her; this woman had also emerged from behind the same rack that she had appeared from.

Abruptly, Bellatrix turned her eyes away from Draco (who continued to stare at her in a dumbfounded form) to the woman. The woman had long white-blonde hair that she had styled it into a neat elegant up-do. Her eyes were blue like the ocean; for a split second, Bellatrix recalled how she would read to those eyes at night, until they would close peacefully. She did not know why her mind had evoked such a thought, and that too now (sometimes the mind induced odd recollections at the most unfitting times). Bellatrix continued to behold her sister; she was walking towards her son.

Narcissa had not looked around her surroundings thoroughly. Her eyes had been glued on the ground, as she strolled gracefully near Draco. She was about to place her slender white hand on his shoulder to turn him around, so that she could see how he looked from the front in the green robe he had tried on— when suddenly; from the corner of one of her eyes, she spotted a bouquet of dark curls (like her shocked son, Draco had a few seconds ago). The hand that she had nearly placed on her son's shoulder sharply fell to her side, and she immediately wrung her pale face to where Bellatrix was seated.

**oOo**

The air had suddenly become cooler by plunges. Tonks's tongue began to salivate, and the stillness of her surroundings caused her to hear that ringing one hears in their ears when it's far too quiet. She gaped at Bellatrix and Narcissa – her aunts. The two of them were staring at each other; their blue and dark brown eyes penetrating into each other's souls. They appeared as though they were communicating with one another on a subconscious level, and as though they did not want those around them to hear what they were sharing.

Meanwhile, Draco was standing beside Narcissa; his eyes were ignited in a cycle of glancing back and forth to his mother and aunt. Tonks turned her attention to Harry: he was standing in a manner likewise to hers; his hands were wrapped around his chest; his eyebrows furrowed; his striking green eyes revealing tremor, and a glint of interest at what was occurring before him—

"_Draco_," Narcissa's unruffled voice suddenly roared into their surroundings. Tonks turned her attention away from Harry and abruptly to her. Narcissa was hiding whatever it was she was feeling inside quite well; though her eyes were disloyal to her otherwise calm exterior — "Let's go to Twiflet and Tatting's. I believe they may have robes more suited to your needs," she said collectedly to her son. Draco did not respond verbally; he bobbed his head jaggedly to his mother who then turned around to Madam Malkin.

Madam Malkin was standing behind her counter, her lips were shaking and her eyes blazed with dread, as Narcissa's cold blue eyes pierced into her soul. "_You_," she watched Narcissa say coldly, "we'll buy the robe my son is wearing currently." Madam Malkin nodded her head hastily - "Well, what are you waiting for? Charge it on my account!" Narcissa sneered.

"Temper_, Cissy," _Tonks suddenly heard a familiar cool voice; she immediately turned around to where it had issued, and found Bellatrix gazing at her sister with a faint, snide smirk plastered across her attractive face. The Metamorphmagus quickly looked back to Narcissa to see how she had reacted; Narcissa's lips were trembling, and she had her head bent low to the ground (though not for long). Her head suddenly sprang up, and she turned her face to Draco, grabbed him by his hand, and began to march out of the shop haughtily. Tonks took a few steps away from the front door, as Narcissa stormed towards it - she had never been so close in proximity to _this_ aunt.

Tonks had expected Narcissa to thunder out the door – but to her surprise, she had stopped right in front of it. Narcissa sprung her head around to Bellatrix; Bellatrix regarded Narcissa nonchalantly. A few strands of blonde hair had become misplaced in her sister's otherwise elegant and perfect up-do; they were hanging by her pale face. Narcissa's thin lips began to move - "You turned your back on your family so easily, _Bellatrix_. Do you not know what you've done?" she hissed. Abruptly, a second of silence that felt like days diffused through their surroundings; their surroundings felt as though they had become even frostier.

Harry watched Bellatrix's eyebrows furrow - her dark eyes were drenched in anger, and she began to breathe severely. "_Narcissa_," she said, her voice was cool and calm, traitorous to the passionate feelings of anger revealing through her striking dark eyes. Bellatrix was pausing to gain Narcissa's full attention. During the pause, Harry and Tonks turned their attention back to the blonde, who was holding Draco's hand firmly by the front-door – her long manicured nails dug into Draco's pale hand, causing him to squirm—"_I should ask you the same_," Bellatrix's low, cool voice rolled through their surroundings.

Another moment of silence commenced, in which Narcissa's eyes enlarged. The silence was then suddenly interrupted by the ringing heard when someone was leaving or entering the tailoring shop — Narcissa had furiously left. Shortly, Bellatrix gazed through the window she was seated against, and watched her sister drag her son through the brick-streets of Diagon Alley.

Meanwhile, Harry watched the dark-haired witch; her eyes were glued on the front-window. He knew intuitively (although he wasn't looking out the window) that she was watching her sister.

He beheld her, as she suddenly wrung her head around from the window; she was now staring vacantly at the Persian carpet on the wooden floor. Her dark eyes were once again hard for him to fathom – just like conversation Narcissa and she had shared—"I-I think we'll get your robes later, Harry," Tonks stammered, ushering him out of his thoughts. He turned around to Tonks, and noted that she was in a shocked disposition, "Let's go to the Leakey Cauldron to eat - I'm dreadfully hungry," the Metamorphmagus said, with a forced smile smeared across her face; Harry noticed that her mousey-brown hair had turned to an even duller brown.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, there's Chapter 8. I'm sorry if it's shorter than the previous chapter I've posted, but you see—I needed to leave this chapter here, just because it 'felt' right to end it this way. As I've already mentioned before, I believe this fic is going to be *quite* long, because you see I don't want the relationships etc. to form to abruptly and hastily. I'm trying my best to slowly progress this fic. Anyway, as I've already mentioned a hundred times before—your thoughts are wholeheartedly welcomed! And also, I thank everyone who has put this fic into their alert/favourite or/and have taken the time to leave a review, it truly means a lot to me! What are stories for if they're not read? :)_

_UPDATE (October 26, 2012): I'm going to be taking a few days off (a week or two) to finish the Deathly Hallows, and then return to updating this fic. During my leave, I will be writing (so once I'm back you'll be seeing quick updates, hopefully) the forthcoming chapters. I will be writing more than one chapter from now on (around three or four before updating) because that way I can change up the plot line etc. in a previous chapter if I change my mind while writing a future chapter. I hope you all understand! Nevertheless, I just want to make it clear - that I won't be abandoning this fic, at least not any time soon! _


	9. What If

**Chapter 9: What If**

Arthur Weasley came out of a Muggle car the Ministry had loaned him, and shortly Ginny, Ron, Hermione and Harry followed suit. They now stood outside the car, with their luggage held firmly in their hands. Harry's owl, Hedwig was meanwhile peeved at Pigwidgeon for hooting far too wildly with excitement in her cage.

After smiling warmly at Mrs. Weasley, who had now come out of the car, Harry turned around to face the large railway terminus station in the northern edge of central London. He could already imagine the whistles ushering out of the steam engine of Hogwarts Express in his ears. An unadulterated smile quickly flashed over his features, and his green eyes soaked with anticipation, he yearned to sniff the scent of mystery and unknown that seeped out of each brick at Hogwarts.

Harry turned around to face Ginny; she flashed him a smile with her friendly brown eyes that were much like her mother's. "Well, ready?" she asked kindly, but he nodded in response expressionlessly, initiating Hermione and Ron to communicate silently with one another. The two knew something odd had occurred to Harry ever since he had returned to the Burrow with Tonks. He had not spoken to them at all about where he had been, or what he had been doing during the few days they had not heard from him at all. Additionally, Hermione had a niggling feeling that Harry knew what the destroyed prophecy had contained; she could see it in Harry's conduct and eyes; she sighed, and turned around to Harry, giving him a faint grin, while her bushy hair wafted with the wind. Shortly, the Weasleys, Harry and she began to trot forwards into King's Cross, arriving between the barrier of platform nine and ten.

Harry turned to Mr. Weasley and noticed that his face was sparked in what seemed to be excitement. Mr. Weasley was looking at his wife with eyes glowering in anticipation. Molly shook her head at her husband and said, "O.W.L it to him, I think he'd appreciate it more that way, Arthur." Mr. Weasley nodded in response with a sigh and much relent, but his face quickly returned to its warm and placid expression. Harry wondered what Mrs. and Mr. Weasley had been talking about, when suddenly he felt himself wrapped in Mrs. Weasley's robust arms. Soon, Mrs. Weasley had given Ron (who had yelled "MUM!" in embarrassment) and Ginny a hug too. Crookshanks had leapt out of Hermione's arm, and Hermione was running after her cat, so she had been lucky enough to have been spared from Molly Weasley's tight embraces.

Mrs. Weasley gave a motherly exhalation – one that screamed with the thought '_they're growing up too fast'_, and turned around to face a large clock placed high up on one of the tall pillars at King's Cross. "Not much time left," she frowned, "I-I guess we should go in and wait with the other families," she stammered.

"Mum, _please_ don't cry," Ginny wailed sarcastically, her mother chortled warmly in response. After forced laughter with Hermione and Ron, Harry turned around to see if any Muggle onlookers were nearby. Once being completely sure that not a single Muggle in his environs would notice what he would do next – he ran towards the barrier, and no sooner that he had, he was met with a blast of sound; the blended sound of cheers, weeps and laughter of Wizarding families departing with their children and loved ones.

Harry turned around, and found four redheads tottering towards him, and Hermione with her unkempt brown hair. "How splendid," Mr. Weasley smiled, "reminds me of the time I'd go to Hogwarts. Wish I could go again—" Mr. Weasley's attention suddenly changed directions, and he flashed a warm smile towards wherever he was looking: Harry reeled his head around to where Mr. Weasley's eyes were seated and found a familiar friend coming out of the crowd towards them. "Ah, the young Longbottom! How are you doing Neville?" Harry heard Mr. Weasley beam.

Neville was holding an odd sort of plant in his hands, he had his usual expression plastered across his face; confusion mingled with friendliness. He always tended to seem lost, though Harry now knew well enough that it was just Neville's usual bearing.

Harry's green eyes trailed Neville's round face; Harry wondered if Neville might have been a different person today if he had grown up under the guidance of his parents. An image of a woman with black curly hair cascading around an elegant face twirled into Harry's mind – his jaws tightened, and his hands morphed into fists. "H-Harry, are you okay?" he heard Neville stammer. Harry started out of his thoughts, and looked around to find the worried stares of his friends set upon him.

"Oh – y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Harry lied, stammering to Neville, and not revealing the pit of anger he constantly slipped in and out of, ever since the day he had spotted those silken curls at Gringotts.

He could not flung memories of Bellatrix out of his mind.

How would Neville feel if he came to know that the woman who had caused his mother to reside in St. Mungo's – now also held his mother's wand? It was not fair – life was not fair.

_Ting – Ting_

Harry looked around frantically, and realized it had just been the bell ringing – only a minute was left until eleven when Hogwarts Express would start to depart, he turned around to face Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and flung them a smile. "Stay safe, all of you!" Mrs. Weasley cried, as Harry began to run towards the train with his friends closely behind.

He jumped up into the train, and waved his hand in good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley – his eyes unexpectedly fell on a woman with white-blonde hair; she was flashing a warm smile to her son. Narcissa's eyes quickly fell on Harry, and her golden eyebrow wrinkled; abruptly, she turned around – disappearing into the crowd. What had occurred in Madam Malkins between Bellatrix and Narcissa sprung into Harry's mind, but he thrust the memory aside when he overheard Hermione and Ron chattering about Defense Against the Dark Arts behind him – "I wonder whose going to teach D.A.D.A," Hermione said, as she walked alongside Ron down the corridor.

"Where should we sit?" Harry called after them. Hermione sharply turned around, her face turning apologetic– "Oh right," Harry quickly muttered, not wishing for Hermione to feel as though he was feeling left out (though he was), "prefect meeting." Sharply, he turned around to Neville who was gawking at the plant he held in his hands with fondness. "Let's find a compartment," he said to him. Neville raised his gaze up from the plant and nodded in retort. Curtly, they began to walk through the corridor, brushing past a heap of other students.

They had leapt on the train quite late, and consequently most of the compartments were taken. Neville sighed, feeling tired and weary of walking back and forth through the corridors to find an empty compartment. "Harry, I think we should sit with some of the first years," Neville complained.

Harry's attention was taken elsewhere; he found one of the compartment doors slightly open. He walked towards it, and found a girl seated within the compartment, holding _T__he Quibbler _in her hand, with odd flowers pinned into her hair. "Luna?" Harry whispered. The girl smacked _T__he Quibbler _onto her lap, and turned her face around to Harry. Instantly, Harry found familiar protruding eyes staring at him.

"Oh, it's you, Harry," Luna grinned, "and Neville too!" she quickly added, beaming, as she spotted the other adolescent behind Harry.

"Can we sit here?" Harry asked. Luna quickly nodded, and Harry smiled in response, relieved to have finally found a compartment. He walked in, making himself comfortable in a spare seat while Luna turned her attention back to _T__he Quibbler, _which she was holding upside down. Neville had seated himself too, beside Luna and he had returned to stare at the odd plant he was holding with affection. Luna's eyes travelled away from _T__he Quibbler _to the plant Neville was holding, and inquired about it; they began to converse animatedly, while Harry looked outside the window at the green fields the train was passing by. Harry felt at peace and smiled dimly, placing his head onto the window, and closing his eyes. It had been a while since he had slept well, his mind had always busied itself with thoughts – but more often than not, Harry purposefully tried to remain awake at night, for whenever he fell into a slumber, he would perceive his death at Voldemort's hands...

_The Prophecy…_

_Neither can live while the other survives…_

Harry did not have a choice – he had to kill Voldemort. His destiny had already been written from the moment Voldemort had chosen him as his rival when he had been a meager child in his crib. Harry suddenly recalled his mother and father's warm faces, watching him through the Mirror of Erised. They had sacrificed their lives so that he could live – and now the Wizarding world was awaiting for him to risk his life, so that their lives and of their loved ones would no longer be in danger. It seemed to Harry that his parents had saved his life for nothing; the Wizarding world would not let his parents dying efforts of keeping him alive thrive. To Harry, it precipitously appeared that people were fundamentally selfish. They had called him 'the Chosen Boy' and the "Boy Who Lived' – putting slogans on him, morphing him into their savior, so that one day if the need arisen he would save them, and they wouldn't have to risk their own lives.

Mirages of his parents' affectionate faces circled around in his mind, while the steam engine was tooting off in the distance, and the train's juddering was shaking him gently. Neville and Luna's conversation were becoming incoherent to Harry's ears; they were meshing with the whistling of the steam engine, and rhythmic shaking of the train. Soon, Harry had fallen asleep — his sleep was dreamless, for a while.

**oOo**

_A few hours earlier…_

It was an awfully beautiful morning, much in contrast to the previous dreary days London had suffered from. The sun was shining brightly, casting its rays on a certain raven-haired witch; causing her hair to appear a dark silvery-blue. Bellatrix had her slender hands shoved in a grey sweater, and was sporting plain blue jeans, as she strolled down the street to 12 Grimmauld Place in order to obtain a certain keepsake, her hair was billowing with the pleasant wind. She couldn't Apparate into 12 Grimmauld Place from the Leakey Cauldron (where she had stayed during the previous few days), for her mind could not concentrate well on a thing for too long, and to Apparate one had to focus fully on their destination – and thus for Bellatrix, Apparition had currently been out of the question.

Her heels tapped on the ground, and they finally stopped tapping when she stood still on the sidewalk, before the area between 11 and 12 Grimmauld Place. Of course, the oblivious Muggles around her did not recognize that there was a residence located right in front of them, due to the charms and spells that had been casted on the very old mansion. She glanced around, looking to see if any Muggles were nearby, and after being sure no one was watching, although she was sure a Muggle repellent charm had been casted on Number 12, she let Number 12 shove the adjacent houses away; it shortly revealed the worn steps that lead up to its large front door. Abruptly, she went up the steps, flung the door open, and commenced to walk through the corridor, apathetic towards the portraits of her ancestors that were gawking at her in frightened dispositions (as they had beheld what she had done to Aunt Walburga's portrait).

Bellatrix could hear Kreacher's voice; the elf was talking to himself, though he believed he was speaking to his 'Mistress', as in the late Aunt Walburga. "Mistress!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Kreacher thinks his Mistress looks beautiful today!" he cried. Bellatrix rolled her dark eyes, and began to walk up the creaking curved staircases that lead up to the first floor, where she had found Sirius's diary in the room at the very end of the corridor.

Her eyes wandered across the unwelcoming and worn wallpapers, her heels drumming on the ground. At last, she arrived to the end of the hallway, and pushed the door open, hearing a creak. She spotted the diary; it donned a red leather cover with 'S' written across it in beautiful golden calligraphy. She inhaled deeply, nearly staggering as she reached the diary that lay deserted on the floor. She knelt, and with a trembling hand picked it up; soon placing a Shrinking Charm on it, and gently plopping it and the hawthorn wand into the large front pocket of her baggy sweater.

She sighed in, and glanced up at the clock that hung on one of the walls sporting faded emerald-colored wallpaper. It was around eight in the morning, and she had already packed and readied her luggage (not that she had many clothes or possessions) for the train that would come in the next few hours and take her to Hogwarts, where she would teach Potions. Dumbledore had persuaded her into taking the post; expressing how Hogwarts was the safest place she could stay; that she would receive a nice monthly wage; and that she wouldn't have to spend on a place to rent or food, as she would receive a pleasant chamber at Hogwarts to reside in, and would have all the food she wanted from the Kitchens for free. The offer had been agreeable, and Bellatrix knew nobody else would hire her (seeing as she had quite the history), so she hadn't really had the choice to decline.

'A cup of coffee would be nice', Bellatrix quickly thought to herself, as she began to stride out of the room where Sirius had stayed before he had… she didn't let her thoughts stream further.

She thrust the door open, and heard what sounded like humming emit from a drawing room also situated on the first floor. Slowly, she trudged towards the room where she had heard the sound issue, and to her surprise she found the boney house-elf singing to himself in a feeble and scrawny voice, as he brushed non-existent dust off of a tapestry that he seemed quite infatuated with.

Bellatrix's dark eyes were suddenly glued on the tapestry.

While ignoring the deranged house-elf she neared it. Kreacher glared up at her with glowering eyes, but did not want to imagine what the infamous Bellatrix Black would do if provoked, and so he did not speak up about how greatly it riled, and angered him to see her so near the tapestry he treasured so dearly. He grumbled, and began to mutter incoherent profanities, as he trekked away from the tapestry and out of the room, leaving Bellatrix completely alone before it.

Her dark eyes were fastened on the tapestry, meticulously scanning each face that evoked a memory in her mind. Her eyes darted away from viewing a great-uncle that had died when she had been a child to Uncle Orion and his wife, Aunt Walburga. Her eyes reeled down to the face of Regulus Black, Sirius's brother. She hadn't been as close to him, he had been far too the perfect _son_ just as Narcissa had been the faultless pureblood _daughter_. Sirius and Bellatrix relationship had contrived at a young age due to similar dilemmas; both had been first-children that had not been beheld with fondness by their parents, while their younger aforementioned siblings were doted upon.

Bellatrix's eyes then lingered for a few minutes on the dark imperfection that hid Andromeda's face and name – she wondered how her sister had been doing for all these years, what had become of her – had she changed? She had had a closer relationship with Andromeda than Narcissa. Narcissa had always been the _precious_ family darling – always the epitome of pureblood femininity and womanhood.

Bellatrix furrowed her eyebrows as thoughts concerning Narcissa persisted in her mind, but while doing so her eyes spotted the dark blemish covering Sirius's face and name – her slender hand rose from her side, and she rubbed the spot in the tapestry where Sirius's image had been with trembling fingers, thinking the dark mark would disappear and she would be met with Sirius's lighthearted face, though knowing how foolish her notion was. Abruptly, her dark eyes began to become starry with tears, and she let her hand fall down to her side when the dark imperfection loitered.

She twirled her head around from the tapestry with a lamenting sigh. Walburga had made it her personal responsibility to remove the images of the individuals she had deemed as disgraceful. Bellatrix wondered for a splitting second if her image would be blasted off the tapestry if Aunt Walburga had been alive, considering her current disposition.

She then sluggishly began to walk out of the room, and strode up the stairs to the second floor to view what had been Sirius's room in his childhood and adolescence. She arrived before the room – it had 'Sirius' written on its large door in big print. She twirled the doorknob, marched into the room, and was met with draperies, furniture and faded wallpaper, all in gold and red. She chuckled weakly, knowing very well how Sirius had always tried to peeve his parents by showing off his Gryffindor pride.

On one of the walls, she suddenly spotted a picture of four individuals, but she could not see the picture clearly, so she neared it. For a second, she had believed Harry had been in the picture when she quickly realized it was James, his father, and Sirius's closest friend. Quickly, she turned her attention towards the man standing beside James; it was Sirius. His dark eyes were glazed with mischief, and his lips were turned upwards into a bright smile, as he waved his hands in the picture lively.

Bellatrix's lips curled into a nostalgic smirk, as she traced Sirius's face with her finger. She then tried to remove the picture from the wall, but the picture would not budge. She slid her hand into her grey sweater and removed her hawthorn wand, and incanted an anti-Charm few knew for the Permanent Sticking Charm that had been casted on the picture. Voldemort had taught her the anti-charm, as she had become almost his apprentice, learning some of the spells he had learned through his endeavors at acquiring knowledge few knew of. She had been his closest lieutenant – most trusted servant; she had gained knowledge of spells and charms most Death Eaters would only dream of attaining—

The picture finally budged, and fell into the palm of her hands, grasping her out of her thoughts. She smiled at the image of Sirius in the picture, and shortly recalled how she had desired a nice warm cup of coffee.

After securing the picture in the front pocket of her loose grey sweater, where the hawthorn wand was placed and Sirius's diary, she nippily hurried away from 12 Grimmauld Place, as though her essence was trying its best to leave the past behind, though her mind clung on to it like a leech. Soon, she arrived to a small little Muggle marketplace by chance; it was a few stops away from Grimmauld Place. She spotted a small French café and entered it. An old man with a very large and pointed mustache was standing behind the counter. Bellatrix neared the French sweets and delicious pastries encased in a glass screen. She then approached the French Muggle who stood behind the counter, after arriving at a choice. "I'd like one of those," she said to him, "and regular coffee– no sugar," she hastily added with her cool voice.

The Muggle nodded, "Oui, Madame!" and grabbed the pastry she had ordered, and shortly came forward with a cup of coffee in his hand. Bellatrix hoisted the cup out of his hand, and grabbed the brown paper bag he had put the pastry in. She turned around to find herself a seat in the café, when she thought she had heard him say Sirius's name.

Rapidly, she wrung her head around. "Excuse me?" she asked, her voice streaked with shock.

The French man gazed at her warmheartedly, "Oh, Madame. I said you shouldn't be so _serious_ — smile!" he exclaimed, "I know you must have a _beautiful_ smile, Madame," he beamed kindly at her.

_'There's nothing to smile about,' _she thought, involuntarily, but didn't pronounce her thought aloud, rather – she glared at the man with her usual cold and unemotional gaze. Nevertheless, she did not know how the man had reacted upon perceiving her surly behavior, as she had quickly turned her back to him, and had impulsively made her way to the nearest table to sit down and devour what she had ordered.

**oOo**

_Presently…_

The train continued to steadily shake Harry, who had his eyes closed and had his head rested against the window. All was the same in the compartment; Luna and Neville were still seated, talking amiably with one another, leaving Harry asleep so he could rest – though, Harry would not remain in a tranquil state for long. His mind had arisen to evoke a nightmare that he seemed to witness each time he fell asleep – his eyebrows rutted as he began to perceive the dreadful dream…

_It was dark and damp in the cell, Harry could only hear the sound of water as it trickled down from the cold brick walls, and dripped down to the ground. His hands and feet were shackled, as he sat crouched in the corner of the cell, and heard the bars of the cell open. A figure strode in– Harry could see the figure's slitted-crimson eyes blaze through the darkness that engulfed him. The figure lifted his hand, pointing his wand at him – "Avada—"_

The vision began to dim and dim, the sound of water dribbling down the walls began to muffle, until they arrived at a complete lull. To Harry's surprise, he found himself somewhere else – he was at 12 Grimmauld Place. Quickly, Harry realized he was witnessing a memory_…_

_He was sitting in front of the fireplace, and had just asked the woman who was seated beside him on a sofa what had gone through her mind when she had killed his godfather. Silence had commenced; minutes and minutes had passed by. Harry could hear the sound of burning wood reverberate around the room, while he had come to believe he would never receive an answer – but he had – oh he had…_

_"I didn't think," she had said, with a voice engraved in agony—_

Abruptly, the memory began to warp into mistiness until it blasted into oblivion. Harry found himself in a very different setting...

_He was running his hand through silken dark hair. He could feel the velvety texture of this woman's hair, as it fell through the gaps of his fingers. Soon, he gently dived his face into nape of her ivory-skinned neck, inhaling her scent, while he wrapped his hands around her slender waist. She sharply turned around in surprise, and he found himself staring at glistening dark eyes—_

Harry immediately shot out of his sleep, and was gasping uproariously. Those eyes – those eyes – he very well knew to whom those eyes belonged. He shook his head, swiped perspiration off his forehead with a trembling hand, and brushed his hair with shaky fingers. Neville and Luna were looking at him in surprise, their alarmed expressions soon altered into worry. In harmony, they quickly asked, "Harry, are you alright?"

There were a few moments of silence in the compartment; Harry gawked at them with wide-eyes while they stared back with equally enlarged eyes. Neville and Luna watched Harry, as he opened his mouth – Harry was trying to say something to distill the awkwardness, but instead his mouth sprung close again when he suddenly heard the sound of a cart reeling in the corridor – "Snacks. Treats. Drinks. Snacks. Treats. Drinks," he heard those three words rumble through the corridor and into the compartment repeatedly.

Neville and Luna's attention were still daubed on him – Harry saw no reason to lie to them. "Just a nightmare," Harry explained. Abruptly, Luna began to give him advice on methods her father had told her to take to avoid nightmares while falling asleep, but Harry could not concentrate on what she was saying; he still had the image of Bellatrix's stunning eyes engraved in his head. Suddenly, he felt his stomach grumble. He was hungry – "I'm going to get some snacks. Do you two want anything?" he asked. Luna shook her head, but Neville asked for a few types of sweets.

Nodding towards Neville, Harry trudged out of the compartment, and found a young woman just out of her teens wearing a knee-length black and white server dress, pushing the cart through the corridor. She had her hair in a messy bun, and was chewing bubble-gum loudly, while repeating "Snacks. Treats. Drinks," lethargically.

"Excuse me!" Harry screamed out to her.

The young woman jolted to a stop, and turned around. Harry quickly stumbled towards her, ordered a few snacks and drinks, quickly recalled what Neville had asked for, and ordered that too. He was rummaging through his pockets and found a few galleons, when the sound of heels drumming on the floor grasped his attention. He turned around to where he had heard the sound issue, while the galleons he had grasped in his pocket slipped from his hold. "Hey! I don't care if you're the Boy-Who-Lived, but you need to pay for these!" the young woman screamed (she had undoubtedly been sorted into Slytherin, though not for being ambitious, seeing as she was rolling a snack trolley in a train). Harry quickly turned around to her, and plunged some galleons into her hands, dazedly took the snacks and drinks he had ordered, and immediately began to run to his right, where he had seen a woman with glossy dark curls disappear into the adjacent passenger vehicle.

He nudged to a stop upon hearing a familiar voice boom into the corridor — "Harry? Where are you going? That's where the staff compartments are. The vehicle is out-of-bounds for students!" The voice had belonged to Hermione, but he was in no mood to explain what he had just perceived. He disregarded her, thrust the door leading into the staff compartments open with his hand, and marched into it in a livid form.

The corridor where the staff compartments were was empty. For a split second, Harry wondered if he had just imagined those silken dark curls; perhaps it had merely been a hallucination, triggered by the dream he had perceived of Bellatrix minutes ago in the compartment he was sharing with Neville and Luna.

It was eerily quiet in the staff compartments, Harry wondered if Silencing Charms had been casted, seeing that the teachers were treated more specially than students. He walked through the corridor, gazing at the compartment doors that had all been fastened and locked. Harry, for a fleeting second, reassumed he had seen a hallucination, when he suddenly spotted a compartment door that had been feebly cracked open.

Harry walked near it, and upon arriving at the door he could hear someone inside. He peeped in, and could not see much at first; he spotted a slender bare arm, and that was all. He could hear the figure within the compartment grumbling, and soon spotted a grey sweater and a bra stained with what seemed to be red wine, lying deserted on the floor.

Suddenly, Harry perceived a naked shoulder.

His eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The woman in the compartment was wearing dark jeans, and was trying to put on a lacy bra. Though Harry would never openly admit it, he had never seen a bra in real life before. His eyes remained glued on the bra the figure was trying to put on with her lean hands. Her long dark hair was brushed onto one side of her shoulder, revealing her milky back. Harry tried to remove his eyes, until his mind evoked to him why he had stormed into the staff compartments in the first place. Rage instantly boiled into his veins, his fingers began to tremble—

Dark eyes had met green.

Harry fumbled for a few seconds, while Bellatrix's dark eyes enlarged. She was now sporting a black lacy bra, and her hair was a tousled mess, making her look as though she had just sprung out of bed. Her plain dark jeans were fitted tightly around her slender waist, and though Harry was feeling rage boil through his essence, his green eyes could not help but stare at her curvaceous form. Then, the moment was gone, and Harry found himself in her compartment, pointing his wand at her nose, while she likewise was pointing her wand at Harry.

They were breathing raggedly, her dark eyes and his green eyes giving each other death-stares. "Why are you here?" Harry spat, shoving her with a push of his free hand.

Bellatrix, however, well trained in both the dark-arts and Muggle combat, kicked him in his groin. Harry screamed in pain, and staggered down to the ground. Still in just her bra and jeans – she quickly grabbed her robe and pulled it over her head. Then, she turned around to a groaning Harry on the floor and said with fury, "The staff compartments are out-of-bounds for students, _Potter_. Fifty points from Gryffindor! And, I will surely notify Dumbledore about your rule-breaking." Harry moaned what seemed to be a '_No!_' while writhing on the ground.

Her lips curled up at his pathetic state. She neared Harry, and kicked his back, "Get up! Get out!" she bellowed. He winced, and rapidly jumped up from the ground, nearly staggering as he tottered out of her compartment's door.

Bellatrix sighed in relief once Harry had gone out of view, and slumped herself down onto a seat. With gritted teeth, she hissed – "_Potter," _as she quickly comprehended that for roughly a year she would be seeing his face on a near daily basis. For a fleeting second, she decided on quitting her job. Her hand clutching the hawthorn wand trembled in anger; she glanced down to her wand—'_the Longbottom's boy'._ Her lips coiled into a frown, and she flung the hawthorn wand to the ground—

She would be seeing Frank and Alice Longbottom's son too…

_"Please — I have a son — a baby!" Alice pleaded_.

Bellatrix abruptly hurled out of her seat, walked towards the window, opening it and letting fresh air inside. Her hands clasped the window frame, and she tried her best to let her focus and attention fleet elsewhere from the memory in which she had inflicted the Cruciatus Curse on the Longbottoms.

Her dark curls bellowed with the wind, as she gaped at the green fields the train passed by. She recalled the day she had first set on the train, she had been a trusting eleven-year-old child, ecstatic and scared out of her wits on which house she would be sorted into...

_'Slytherin! I need to get into Slytherin. Please, just put me into Slytherin!' she implored. Her father's brutal face swarmed into her mind. She bit her lips, feeling a flash of pain reminiscent to his beatings flutter through her body. 'I hope Cissy and Meda will be fine without me for a year,' she thought to herself inadvertently, even through the fear and anxiety she was feeling during the sorting…_

Bellatrix felt her hands clench onto the window frame harder. Her heart began to thunder in fury –

_'Cissy' _she hissed sardonically, chuckling painfully, as she remembered what had happened in Madam Malkins a few days ago. Through all her childhood, she had tried to protect Narcissa and Andromeda from her father's wrath. Whenever she believed her father would want to physically abuse one of her sisters, she would purposefully do something that would anger him terribly, turning his attention towards herself – to save them. And Narcissa – she had turned out so ungrateful…

_"Ah!" the sorting hat whispered in her ear. "Loyal, brave and courageous. Gryffindor attributes, I must say. Are you sure, young Black that you wish to be sorted into Slytherin? You will find great friends in Gryffindor… Ah, but you have a desire – a need to prove yourself – perhaps Slytherin will do…" the Sorting Hat trailed off in her ear._

_Bellatrix stiffened, pondering over what decision the Sorting Hat had arrived upon, 'Please, put me in Slytherin. I need to be put into Slytherin, you don't understand—'_

_"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat cried into the Great Hall. Bellatrix gazed at the Slytherin table that had erupted into cheers and applauds, momentarily stunned. Then, she plopped herself off the stool, and staggered towards the long table, feeling relieved. She glared back at the row of students waiting to be sorted, and found Sirius next in line. She smiled at her cousin, and waited for him to be sorted into the house she had been just placed in, when—_

_"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat screamed._

_Bellatrix felt her heart wane. At that moment, she had wished she hadn't begged the Sorting Hat to place her in Slytherin..._

Her hold on the window frame further increased, and her dark eyes bore a listless expression as they viewed the green fields pass by. She pondered over how her life might have turned out if she had been sorted into Gryffindor, but realized that the strained relationship with her parents would have further increased if she had been. 'But it would have passed' she thought to herself, 'I would have been free – could have ran - ran like Sirius—,' her thoughts momentarily slid, when she viewed a large castle loom into view through the clouds—Hogwarts.

'But I couldn't. Couldn't run and leave Cissy and Meda alone,' she involuntarily finished her thought. Her hold on the window frame lessened, and she turned around to pick up the stained sweater and bra from the ground. After packing them into her luggage, she knelt down and picked her hawthorn wand from the ground as well, placed a Shrinking Charm on her luggage, and then quickly lunged her wand into the side-pocket of her robe hastily, as to not recall Alice and Frank Longbottom's pained faces.

Sudden taps on her door startled her. She walked to her compartment's door, opened it, and was surprised to find Tonks standing before her. The Metamorphmagus's hair was still mousey-brown, and she had a sad expression glazed over her eyes. "Hello," Tonks croaked. "I-I thought we could walk up to Hogwarts together."

While Tonks was waiting for a response, Bellatrix observed her attentively, and finally cooped up an eyebrow. Frankly, she found her niece's attempts of trying to get close to her quite irritating. She sighed roughly and nodded brusquely, brushing past her. Tonks tried to keep up with Bellatrix, as Bellatrix was hurriedly walking down the corridor to get out of the train.

Through one of the windows, Bellatrix suddenly spotted Ron and Hermione (or the 'Weasley boy' and 'Muggle-born' as she referred to them in her head): they were walking before first-years, guiding them to the boats. She could not see Harry at all with them. Perplexed, she glanced around the corridors to find him, but they were empty. Tonks noticed Bellatrix's eyes darting around the compartments. "Are you looking for someone or something?" the mousey-haired Metamorphmagus asked.

Tonks, however, was not met with a reply. Bellatrix's eyes were glued on a compartment door that was not opened like the rest. She strode towards it, turning the knob, but it wouldn't open. "Locked," she muttered to herself, as she then slipped her hands into the side-pocket of her robe, and pulled out her hawthorn wand. She placed the tip before the knob and whispered, "Alohoroma." The lock clicked open, and she then turned the knob around, opening the door with her slender hand.

The compartment was filthy; there were snacks and drinks everywhere. Bellatrix noted there were many Honey-Flavored Toffee wrappers. 'Draco likes to eat those,' she recalled, as she strode forwards. Suddenly, she tripped over something warm, and toppled over with a smack. "Bellatrix!" Tonks screamed behind her. "It's Harry!"

A baffled and groaning Bellatrix turned her face around to where she had tripped over, and found a head with disheveled jet-black hair on the ground with an unseen body. She watched her niece spring towards Harry, and remove what seemed to be an invisibility cloak, revealing his body. "Harry!" Tonks cried, silently casting the counter-curse to the Full-Body Bind Curse Harry had been rendered immobile with. Bellatrix pushed herself off the ground gruffly, while Tonks cleared dried red blotches of blood from Harry's face using magic. "What happened?" Tonks whispered.

"Draco," Bellatrix responded instead of Harry, intuitively knowing it had been her nephew who had done this. Though she felt slightly amused at Harry's state, she had never been quite fond of her nephew. She turned around to stare at Harry; he was gaping at her with wide green eyes. Bellatrix knew he was wondering how she had figured it had been Draco who had punched him across the face, casted the Full-Body Bind Curse on him, and hid him with the invisibility cloak after he had gone spying on him. "Why had you been sneaking into someone else's compartment, Potter?" Bellatrix sneered; her arms were wrapped around her chest, as she raised an eyebrow up at Harry, while she secretly referred to how he had snuck into her compartment.

Harry had caught the undertones of her words. What had occurred around an hour ago in her compartment flashed through Harry's head. His jaws tightened, and he replied by staring into Bellatrix's dark eyes with loath, and she reacted by gazing at him with eyes burning with equivalent aggression. "Let's ask questions later, the train's about to leave," Tonks sighed, grasping Harry and Bellatrix's attention. "I'm famished! Let's go to the Great Hall!" she added, forcing a grin at Harry and Bellatrix, in an attempt to deflate the uncomfortable atmosphere that seemed to arise whenever the two individuals before her were in close proximity to one another.

* * *

_Author's Note: *Whew* My longest chapter yet! Hope you enjoyed it. Thought I'd make it longer than what I'm usually accustomed to, due to the fact that I won't update this story in the next week or two. By the way, I know I said I won't be updating for around a week or two in the note in the last chapter I posted, but I decided to post this up, because I had finished it a few days ago already. _

_Anyway, please feel free to leave your thoughts. I'd love to hear your opinions, and as I've mentioned before, I'm terribly grateful to those who have put this story in their favourites/alerts. Also, if any of you wish to share your ideas on how you'd like this fic to grow, please feel free to share them by reviewing or leaving a private message if you're too shy. =)_


	10. Sinking Beyond the Abyss

**Chapter 10: Sinking Beyond the Abyss **

She was exploring her room at Hogwarts. It was filled with only a scarce amount of furniture. To be more precise, the new chamber only entertained a bed, a desk, a loveseat, and a large bookcase. Near the middle of the room, within one of the dusty brick walls, was a timeworn fireplace. It was not kindled and fired as of yet, but if need ever arose, it would warm up the room to a near perfect temperature during the colder months.

In short, the furniture was mediocre, all in all the room was unexceptional. Upon scanning the room, Bellatrix's mind had evoked to her the elaborate and elegant furniture at her father's manor, and at Rodolphus'– her second prison. Both abodes had been equally sophisticated, furnished with the most expensive and luxuries objects in almost all of Europe, but they both had been merely well-decorated prisons: What could one do with riches if they were shackled?

As her eyes continued to scan the room, she pondered over all the other professors who may have lived and breathed in her surroundings – some were dead, while a few others were still alive. Slughorn, the Potions professor when she had been a pupil at Hogwarts, would have also possibly resided in this chamber.

Remembering Slughorn caused Bellatrix to remember her years at Hogwarts; she had been a student, hiking through the corridors of Hogwarts with textbooks in her then small hands. Her eyes had sometimes been glazed with anticipation and optimism for her future, but more often than not, she had been apathetic – apathetic, but the brightest and smartest female pupil in Slytherin, or perhaps from all four houses of her time…

And the loneliest too.

She let out a hoarse sigh, and abruptly turned around, finding herself in front of a mirrored closet door. For a riven second, she was stunned as she glared at herself in the mirror. And then, for another split second, she was shocked once more, as she perceived a young girl with dark hair settled in a braid, staring back at her with precipitous and defiant black eyes through the mirror. Abruptly, Bellatrix realized she had seen _her _before, she had seen her in the Great Hall while the first years were being sorted, just a meagre amount of hours ago…

**oOo**

_A few hours earlier…_

Hermione strode down a spacey hallway alongside Ron and various other prefects. A large door loomed in the distance, leading to the great hall, and her, Ron and the other prefects lead the first years towards the magnificently large door. Looking back, she found anxiety washing over their juvenile faces. "It'll all go fine," she said to them, grasping their attention."I promise," she comforted, when they appeared skeptical. A few of the first years then smiled back in response, but she noted that most were still nervous. Suddenly, a thin witch wearing a pointed hat and long red robes appeared before Hermione and Ron; she had walked out of the large door that lead to the Great Hall. The stern looking woman with green eyes glanced around coolly at the other prefects, Hermione and Ron, and then at the nervous first years stationed behind them. "I'll take over now," Professor McGonagall said with a brisk nod. Hermione and Ron bobbed their heads, as did the other prefect, then she and Ron headed towards the large door, entering the Great Hall while leaving a weary McGonagall with the first years.

As Hermione walked alongside Ron to the Gryffindor table, where red and gold flags hung above, she scanned the table, and looked with incisive eyes for any traces of Harry. However, to her dismay, she could not find him with the other Gryffindors. Her brows instantly puckered in worry, and she turned around to Ron. "Ron," she said. The ginger whirled around to face her, and Hermione noticed his gaze had been glued on a female Ravenclaw prefect. Her jaws tightened for a few seconds at this, but she was far too concerned over Harry's whereabouts to really care. "Have you seen Harry?" asked Hermione.

Ron shrugged. "Last time we saw him he was with Neville."

Hermione sighed. 'I know that,' she thought to herself before she scanned the Gryffindor table once more for a head of disheveled dark hair.

Ron looked at the fretted look plastered across Hermione's face. "Hey, don't worry," he said, trying best to comfort her. Hermione tore her eyes away from the table, and turned her attention to him. Once their eyes met, he said: "He's probably somewhere around here..."

"No, it's quite evident that he's not, Ron." Hermione huffed in response. " Just... shut up, will you?" she spluttered, clearly enraged.

Ron cooped up his eyebrows, confused at her rude retort. He followed Hermione in a jumbled state, as she haughtily joined the seated Gryffindors. Neville was sitting before her next to Dean, and the two were conversing animatedly with one another.

"Neville," said Hermione and interrupted their conversation, while she noticed Ron had seated himself next to her. Ignoring Ron, she watched Neville turn his head around from Dean to her., and raise his neck, waiting for her to continue. "Have you seen Harry?" she then asked.

Neville gaped at Hermione with broadened eyes for a few seconds before replying: "I- I thought he was with you," he stammered. "Oh – Oh – he's right there!" He suddenly exclaimed in relief while the Sorting Hat had commenced to sing.

Hermione could not concentrate on the Sorting Hat's new song. "Where?" she asked.

"_Hermione," _she heard a voice, startling her out of her thoughts. She turned around to her left, where she found a young male with jet-black hair and green eyes. It was Harry: His face was rigid and tight, red veins spoiling his otherwise stunning eyes. "Harry?" she whispered, slightly surprised by his abrupt entrance. After gathering herself, her eyebrows rutted, this time not out of anxiety, but out of fury. "Now where in Merlin's saggy pants were you?!" she barked.

Harry was about to respond, but noted Hermione's mouth had plummeted open.

Hermione was viewing a woman sporting slim-fitted green robes, with hair as dark as ebony, sauntering through the Great Hall towards the lean rectangular table where all the other professors were seated. "Harry," she whispered in disbelief and confusion. "Look…" her voice trailed off, her attention being completely absorbed by Bellatrix.

He very well knew where she was looking, as he smacked himself on seat next to Hermione. Ron was sitting to her other side, talking enthusiastically with Seamus Finnegan, unaware of the ebony-haired woman who had just walked into the Great Hall. While watching the placid expression on Ron's face, and wishing he too could be in a tranquil state like him, Harry heard Hermione again – _"Harry_, _look!" _she exclaimed in frustration. Hermione's voice had thundered into the Great Hall, drawing the attention of every student. Red-faced, Hermione gulped as she stared inelegantly around the Hall, before the other pupils turned around and recommenced to ogle at the dark-haired witch with their complete attention; their faces were bearing an expression in stark likeliness to the one Hermione was harboring at her sight.

_Former Death Eater Found Innocent in Trial – _titles such as this had travelled across the Wizarding world in newspaper stands of all sorts, from the _Daily Prophet_ – even to _the Quibbler_. All had been startled and stunned at the decision the Wizengamot had arrived at concerning Bellatrix – Hermione too had been surprised. In fact, the word 'surprise' was too unfilled of a word to explain what she had experienced when she had seen Bellatrix's face in the cover of the Daily Prophet with Remus Lupin, and none other than Dumbledore by her side. The details of her trial were held private and clandestine to the world, nobody as of yet knew the reasons for why Bellatrix had been found innocent, other than of course that the Wizengamot had been 'shocked', 'saddened' and 'grieved' over the experiences Bellatrix had gone through in her life, and thus, they all had arrived to clearing the wrongs she had done in the eyes of the law – mandating that she had done her crimes under exceptional circumstances and extreme mental unfitness.

But, the Wizarding world still despised her. Bellatrix was still a criminal – a murderer before their eyes, even if the Wizengamot had said otherwise.

And, Hermione deplored her too.

Abruptly, the bushy-haired witch turned around to Harry, and began to nudge at his arm frenziedly. Harry quickly turned his head around to his right, where she was seated. "I know – I know _– _it's _her_," Harry said, his voice containing slight irritation that he tried best to conceal, but Ron had caught it. Turning away from Seamus to Harry, Ron exclaimed, "Hey, what's wrong with you?" haughtily, before his eyes settled on a certain raven-haired witch. Instantly, Ron's face turned into an alarmed manifestation – "Ha – Ha – Harry," he stuttered, "It's – It's –"

While Hermione stared dumbfounded at Harry for his simple and impassionate reaction to Bellatrix's unexpected appearance, Harry's hands were changing into fists, and his eyebrows were scrunching, all while Ron continued to stammer, "It's – It's – It's – " Not being able to stand the reactions of everyone around him, Harry finally bellowed, _"I KNOW!"_

**oOo**

_"I KNOW!"_

Bellatrix's eyes darted away from the glass of hot tea she had just flavored with some sugar, and was now lethargically mixing with a teaspoon. Aware that each student was gazing at her in disgust, (well except for one, namely Draco – his face was more of an expression that articulated fright and anxiety), she turned to where the _quite _familiar voice she had just heard had ignited: In the Gryffindor table, beside the 'Muggleborn' as Bellatrix referred to Hermione, she spotted a young male with ruffled jet-black hair, and a face expressing nothing more or less than anger. Knowing his fury had something to do with her, her lips curled faintly at the sight, while she heard the quite mind-numbing voice of the Sorting Hat shouting a name of the four houses periodically.

Still gazing at the Gryffindor table, Bellatrix suddenly spotted a round-faced boy sitting near Harry. This boy's eyes were glued on her – they were brewing with the craving for vengeance…

'No. No. No. No,' she muttered frantically in her head, as she felt the marks of entering the onset of insanity.

She was marching there – memories were riling through her head.

Her fingers curled on her teaspoon – _power – power_ – she needed _power_ to stop the memories.

She gasped: _Pain_.

Her fingers burned. Peering down with her dark eyes to the table, she noticed that her cup of tea had tipped, for she had unconsciously been mixing her tea with too much force.

_It felt good. _

For a while, she couldn't think while she felt the burning sensation sweltering her fingers. Then, sudden flashes of unwanted recollections floated into her mind. Her dark eyes travelled from the cup that had rolled to her wrist. On her wrists, she found faint silver scars, evidence of _those_ memories.

The silver scars were proof that she had once been _weak_, and was feeling _weak _again.

Her eyes bolted shut. She was clutching her eyelids together firmly, until she could only see blurry flashes that seemed like fireworks. Then, as she breathed in deeply, she slowly managed to open her eyes, finding herself in the Great Hall again. She felt relieved, feeling she had managed to walk away from the edge of madness.

Then, she caught _those _green eyes probing her soul from the Gryffindor table.

_'Potter.' _

Immediately, she flung her head away from them, and glanced at McGonagall who finished placing the Sorting Hat on the last first year; the Sorting Hat screamed out, "SLYTHERIN!" and with it, applause immediately erupted from the table where students were wearing green and silver neckties.

The first year consumed Bellatrix's attention: Bellatrix wondered what the future beheld for the young girl that nervously plopped herself off the chair, and ambled slowly towards the Slytherin table. The young, dark-haired girl seated herself beside a few other students—

Bellatrix suddenly blinked, blinked and blinked.

_There was no girl. _

It was a boy – a young boy with dull brown hair.

And she realized she had been hallucinating.

Immediately, her chest rose and deflated madly, for it seemed she hadn't been successful at walking away from the threshold of insanity.

Hastily, she gazed away from the first year boy, but as her eyes accidently glided across the Gryffindor table, she found _those_ green eyes again – still watching – trying to decipher her.

_'Never. He will never find out.' _

"Napkins?" she heard a voice. Revolving her head to where she had heard the voice, Bellatrix found herself blankly staring at Professor Flitwick. She realized she had forgotten that her tea had tipped over. Dazedly, she grabbed the napkins from Flitwick's hands, then began to wipe the puddle of her now cold tea off the smooth and polished wooden table. As she mopped the drink, she found herself regarding her reflection in the liquid…

And she felt as though was staring at a stranger.

**oOo**

_Presently… _

'Mad_.'_

Insanity had once given her freedom and liberty – had driven her away from her conscience. When insane, she could do anything without feeling guilt – _and_ she felt alive when delirious... funny how lunacy could occasionally make one feel alive…

Bellatrix was now emptily staring at herself at the mirrored closet – the young girl with dark hair had vanished, and Bellatrix was now gawking at a woman with dark curls framing an ivory face. This woman's eyebrows were rutted, and though her eyes were shaped in such likeliness to the young girl's – they were not defiant – they were weary and vacant.

She heard her feet stroll towards the mirror, gliding across the marble floor of her chamber. For a few seconds that felt more like hours, she was just staring at herself in wonderment. 'Is this me?' she questioned, never feeling such disassociation from herself before. Then, her fingers rubbed across the mirror; she felt the smooth surface of the mirror – her fingers had left grubby marks, as she had skated them towards the reflection of her eyes. Suddenly, she shuddered out of surprise – her hand sharply fell to her side, as an owl's hoots seeped into her surroundings. She lurched herself around to where the sound had issued, and found a snowy owl with a parchment tied to its leg, resting on top of the cedar-wood desk.

Her thoughts flew over her head, as she sauntered towards the owl, relieving it of the parchment with her slender hands. Then, she watched the owl as it flew out of the window with the glass-stained panels. She hadn't noticed she had opened the window – perhaps she had or perhaps she hadn't. She didn't remember much of what she did lately…

She was half here and half there, wherever that was.

Once the owl had disappeared, she felt a breeze wafting in through the window, hitting her face gently – as it hit her face, she forgot it _all _for a few minutes.

She was just alive, breathing and alive, but just as the breeze hit her face, she was _herself _again.

She let out an unaware sigh, and her eyes then stroked down to the parchment she had just collected. She rolled the parchment out, quickly comprehending that it was merely a list containing the names of all the students that she would be teaching to this year. She scanned the parchment. Some surnames she knew of, but other surnames were unknown to her – 'Muggleborns.' Then, suddenly – one name, though written just the same as the others, appeared as though it had been written in bold...

Harry Potter.

_'_Harry_. Bloody. Fucking. _Potter_.'_

Unexpectedly, she desired to run – run, run and run until she stopped thinking, just like she had after Sirius's will had been read at Gringotts. She didn't know why she wanted to run – but she did, for once her mind had evoked to her those green eyes, peering into her soul when she had been seated with the other staff members in the Great Hall.

She didn't know why those green eyes made her feel so unsettled.

But, she hated it.

She hated him.

She knew he was taking up an endeavor none had dared to take.

'He'll fail, though' – she was sure of it – 'He'll fail.'

_'He has to.' _

She scanned the parchment once more, and felt a bit content once she found out that a name had not been inked on the rough texture of the material. 'Longbottom' – she wouldn't be teaching Potions to him.

The last time she had had the pleasure of personally meeting Neville was in the Hall of Prophecies, where she had tortured him briefly with the Cruciatus Curse – to see how long he would hold out before _cracking _like his parents.

Torturing others had turned into a game. Just a game to see how long they would last before turning insane – 'like me.' She hadn't care if she killed, tortured or turned someone mad. In her mind, they had all deserved it – 'After all, nobody's innocent.' Morality was non-existent – the world was grey. People were either predators or preys…

'We might as well be the predators.'

But Sirius was different. He cared – he would kill for her – die for her.

He did die for her.

He hadn't deserved... death.

She winced.

They were too many thoughts for one day; she couldn't handle them all at once, and so she let the parchment, still grasped in her slim hand, fall to the cedar-wood desk she was standing against. Then, she strode towards the mirrored closet door once more, sliding it with a push with her hand, and glancing at the contents within it. The clothes she had packed were already well organized in her closet – somehow. She didn't remember organizing them, but then again – she was at Hogwarts, where things tended to happen on their own. To the very left of the rack, she found her nightgown and grabbed it, throwing it on her bed.

She then took her robes off, and noticed how she was just wearing her jeans and a lacy black bra beneath them. Bellatrix recalled the incident that had taken place in her compartment, and remembered how Harry had just seen her in her brassiere and jeans. This made her unconsciously bite her lips, as she threw her robe and jeans to the ground, and made her way to her bed, grabbing her nightgown and yanking it over her head.

Once redressed, she turned around for a split second to steal a glimpse of herself from the mirrored closet door: Her hair was silken black, and her frame, though slender, was curvaceous. Although in her thirties, Bellatrix realized she appeared no more than twenty. Raising an eyebrow, Bellatrix suddenly wondered why she was staring at the mirror. Shaking her head, her black curls swaying, she jumped onto her bed, shortly pulling a smooth and soft blanket over her tired form. She closed her eyes, falling asleep – almost sinking beyond the abyss.

When she was in a deep state of slumber, too asleep to reign over her thoughts, she had muddled imageries of _those _green eyes stamped in her somnolent dreams.

**oOo**

Green eyes shot open in the dark. A burning sensation had awakened Harry. Immediately, Harry's fingers drew up to his forehead from below his bed-sheets. He rubbed his forehead, hissing at the burning sensation that continued to grow in throbbing. The darkness around him loomed over him, sinking him into a hazy fog, until he was not only somewhere else, but someone else…

_A woman with long and thick blonde hair was kneeling on the floor, gazing up with eyes soaked with fear. _Narcissa. _"Mi- milord, the la - last time I have se - seen _her_ was in Diagon Alley," she stammered, her voice just a level above a faint breath, too diminutive and pathetic_ _to even be considered a whisper. _

_A voice, almost like a slither and hiss of a snake, emerged into the dark chamber – "Whom was she with?" _

_Narcissa's eyes dropped to the ground, her face stricken with embarrassment and shame – "She was with – Po – Potter and _my_ sister's mud-blood." Narcissa had made sure to reveal the disgust she felt towards Andromeda and her niece in her tone. _

Sudden Rage_ – Harry felt as though he was riding a boat in an enraged dark sea. The harsh tides were washing over him – he felt his essence boiling with anger. _

_He had been deceived. _

_He had been deceived. _

_He had waited, waited for her to return – but it was clear now… her deceitfulness had revealed. How. Dare. She._

Just as it the pain and burning had begun, it had disappeared. Harry was left panting in the darkness. His fingers still remained on his forehead, on top of the lightning-bolt scar that connected him with Voldemort.

Narcissa.

Her worried and pain-etched blue eyes lingered in Harry's mind. She had been fearful – fearful for her life, as she explained to the Dark Lord the last time she had seen her sister. Harry's previous assumption that Bellatrix was two-timing was proven wrong. He felt Voldemort's rage still lingering in his essence – 'How. Dare. She,' Voldemort had thought with rage and fury…

And yet, although Bellatrix was now cleared of double-crossing, Harry still hated her – no he _deplored _her. 'But, you saved her life,' something in his mind told him, 'You saved her when she was trying to kill herself,' the voice further whispered in his thoughts. He shook his head, his fingers dropping form his forehead, and clenching onto his bed sheets. Those silken dark curls. Those black eyes – black pools – Harry's breathing began to get ragged. He looked around his surroundings, finding Ron, Dean and Seamus deep asleep. Drawing in a sigh, Harry glanced behind his headboard and at the window. It was dark – dark, but he could see the faint outlines of the sun coming out through the night-sky: It was nearly dawn.

'Why had Bellatrix not returned to Voldemort?' Harry thought, as he gazed at the night-sky – a crescent moon hung amongst the shining stars. Bellatrix had had enough time to go back to Voldemort – return as his top-ranked Death Eater. 'But she hadn't,' Harry pondered, confused, perplexed and stunned.

Sirius. Sirius's will. Harry recalled the last part of his will:

_And, Bella, if you're present at the hearing—I am sorry. I am sorry for not believing in you. I had never received your letter. Lestrange had made sure I would never receive it. I found out about this during my stay in Azkaban, when I had overheard him, rambling on about his guilty memories._

Rodolphus, Bellatrix's former husband had made sure that Sirius would not receive her letter. What had that letter contained? Why did Rodolphus make sure Sirius would not attain it? Curiosity sparked, Harry glanced around once more at Dean and Seamus Finnegan, and as he did so, he recalled Bellatrix's starry eyes when he had been sitting with her in front of the fireplace in silence…

A diary – a red diary with an 'S' engraved on it in beautiful gold calligraphy revolved into Harry's mind. Where had he seen this diary? The diary had been Sirius's, and Harry recalled where he had seen it before – he had seen it in the room at 12 Grimmauld Place, where Bellatrix had tried to kill herself. The diary had been lying deserted on the marble floor of the room, beside Bellatrix who had had her wand plunged into her bosom – about to incant the Killing Curse upon herself.

It dawned on Harry. He needed to find the diary – figure out what in it had caused Bellatrix to want to kill herself.

"Ha – Harry?" he heard a drowsy voice ignite into his surroundings. Turning around, he found his ginger friend's head slightly elevated from his pillow – Ron's sleepy eyes were staring at him. "Ha – Harry? What're you doing up?" Ron asked with a yawn.

"Nothing," Harry lied. "Nothing," he repeated, this time with a forced smile smeared across his face. "Just – just woke up – I'm not feeling sleepy," he said truthfully, for he was feeling quite alert and awake. "It's almost morning anyway," he whispered, as Dean and Seamus began to get rustled by his voice. "I'm going to go to the Common Room," Harry lied to Ron. He watched his ginger friend nod in response, and plunge his head back onto his pillow. Soon enough, Ron had begun to give off faint snores – he had quickly fallen back into his slumber. Harry slid off his bed, and began to tiptoe silently out of the dorm he shared with the three with just one thought in mind – he needed to find _that _diary.

He had to go to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry, however, did not know that the diary was in fact with Bellatrix at Hogwarts.

**oOo**

Startled out of her sleep, Bellatrix gasped for air as the Dark Mark burned on her arm. Her hands wrapped around her skin where the Dark Mark was etched. Her fingers clenched her arm – her nails dug into her skin, as the burning sensation grew. Grasping for breath, with sweat rolling down forehead, Bellatrix realized she had never felt the Dark Mark burn with such intensity before. It was painful – just painful. Not the euphoric pain she had devoured when she had been serving Voldemort. She hissed, and her jaws tightened – as the pain began to grow in amplitude. All she knew was that _he_ was angry – furious at her. The Dark Mark was a tool used by _him_ to call his Death Eaters – but that was only one of its uses.

She was feeling it now. She knew she was feeling it now. She was feeling Voldemort's ire.

A cry escaped her lips, which was accompanied by a tear streaming down her eye, as the pain began to waver to other parts of her body, away from its place of origin.

The Cruciatus Curse was _nothing _compared to this.

Bellatrix felt as though she was being dipped into hot lava – her skin burned, though nothing showed on her flesh. She was drowning in pain – too much in pain to even let out a muffled cry. Her body slumped forwards onto her bed, face-up, while sweat oozed out of her skin. Then, just as the pain had appeared, it disappeared.

Breathless, Bellatrix wrung her head around from her mattress to her ceiling. Her dark eyes stared dazedly at the white ceiling where a large chandelier hung. Lying on her bed, she clenched her eyes tightly – Voldemort now knew of her decision.

He knew she was not returning.

It had only taken Sirius's words at the will for her to unconsciously decide she did not want to return to the Dark Lord. It was a foolish, rash decision, for Bellatrix was sure she would be killed – the Dark Lord simply did not let traitors slip by. All who betrayed him had met their ends – like Regulus, Sirius's brother.

He had died.

Though Bellatrix did not know the details of his death, she had seen uncertainty in his eyes for months before his demise. She knew he wanted to abandon his Death Eater title, though Regulus had never professed it. She knew he had been meaning to turn his back on Voldemort, and then – one day he was gone.

Regulus had never gotten a funeral, for like Sirius, his body had disappeared – never to be found. The differences between the two brothers had been like night and day, but both of their deaths had been similar. Their bodies were unfound – never could a loved one go to their graves, and come to terms with their deaths – place little petty flowers on top of the dirt their corpses lay below.

Bellatrix chuckled – it was an agonizing and mirthless chuckle. Fully alert, knowing she could not fall back asleep, she jerked out of bed – nearly tripping as she slid off her mattress. She had to go out for walk. Turning around from where she stood, she viewed herself in the mirrored closet door – sweat had dried from her skin, but her eyes were ringed red from the agonizing pain she had felt. Her feet skated across the marble floor, as she pushed the closet's door aside, and grabbed one of her robes, wearing it on top of her nightgown. She felt a breeze hit her face – turning her head around from the closet to where the breeze had issued, she quickly noted that the window with the stained glass panels was still open.

Grabbing her wand, from the cedar-wood desk beside the window, she neared the window and was about to close it shut – when she noticed a figure walking across the fields, towards what seemed to be Hogsmeade – away from Hogwarts. Wondering whom at this time of day would be walking out of Hogwarts, Bellatrix squinted her eyes to get a clearer image of the figure—

Ruffled jet-black hair.

It was Harry.

'Harry. _Bloody. _Potter.'

Oddly, she wasn't the least bit surprised. For a sheer second, she was reminded of Sirius – he had always been breaking the rules at Hogwarts. The thought slid though, while her fingers curled around her wand, and she realized this was _Harry _she was viewing and not _Sirius. _Brusquely, she shut the window, and began to march towards her chamber's door – out to catch Harry.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed reading Chapter 10! Hmm, I'm wondering if I should start rating this as M instead of T, due to the darkish themes that have begun to arise in this story, or is T good for now? __Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and if you have anything to share, please feel free to do so. Your reviews are greatly welcomed and appreciated., and well-thought-of criticisms are also welcomed! =D_


	11. The Figure at Hogsmeade

**Chapter 11: The Figure at Hogsmeade**

Harry's feet were pressing onto wet grass, as he marched across the fields. A few hours ago, it had rained after a nearly full day of pleasant sunlight, and Harry knew that the washed out jeans he was wearing beneath his robes would carry a great abundance of stains once he had walked out of the fields, and onto the grass-free roads that led to Hogsmeade.

While he walked across the fields, he squinted his eyes to get a clearer view of where he was heading, as it was quite humid, and the water vapor in the atmosphere had produced a cloudy film over his lenses. To his side was the Forbidden Forest, and as he marched forwards, the mostly large coniferous trees of the forest began to give off the illusion as though they were becoming smaller and smaller in size – perhaps, a bit more inviting as well. The sky was still dark, though a few hours were left till' dawn. White foggy clouds floated past the waning moon, hiding it for a few seconds, causing the sky to appear as black as Snape's robes – spreading chills through Harry.

He could feel dampness in his armpits; caused by the warmth that swathed his atmosphere, by the time he had reached the perimeters of a rarely used dirt road that led to Hogsmeade. An image of the red diary flickered in his mind, while he pondered of ways he could get to 12 Grimmauld: He knew he couldn't use the floo network, as one could only get out of 12 Grimmauld by floo – Apparition was of course, out of the question – so that left Harry with only one method of transportation, the Knight Bus.

Harry scanned his current surroundings: The Forbidden Forest was to the distance. A handful of large trees were spread across the perimeters of the dirt road, though they were not as gigantic as those in the Forbidden Forest. The foggy white clouds Harry had spotted were now floating past him once more, enveloping his surroundings in even further darkness.

He glanced back for a few seconds – Hogwarts loomed in the distance, giving him a faint sense of security and protection. Sighing outwards, Harry stepped on the dirt road, and began to march forwards: He had decided on going to Hogsmeade, thinking it would be safer if he summoned the Knight Bus there, as quite frankly, he did not find the thought of waiting near the Forbidden Forest, beside a dirt road, in an area where it seemed that not a single soul breathed, quite comforting.

**oOo**

A silent corridor greeted Bellatrix after she had marched out of her chamber. Her high-heels harshly glided against the granite flooring of the corridor, as she tried to find a way to get to the nearest exit that would take her to the fields where she had spotted Harry. Soon, she headed to one of the spiral staircases.

Not before long, Bellatrix began to realize she had forgotten how perplexing Hogwarts really was. She found herself back at where she had started, and groaned. Sighing in irritation, she darted her eyes down to another set of spiral staircases that were floating in mid-air. Then suddenly, she heard a sound in the corridor she had assumed only she was occupying. Her hand had immediately thrust in her pocket, and her fingers were curled around her magical instrument, as she wrung her head around to where she had heard the sound: At the very end of the corridor, below a large painting of some snoring knight, was a cat with a scrawny and skeletal body, staring at her with its bulging and lamp-like yellow eyes, as though it was trying to mock her for walking around in circles.

A few seconds later, Bellatrix understood to whom the cat belonged to: Argus Filch, with his thinning hairline and arched back, had appeared in the hallway. He was striding down the corridor, cursing profanities at Peeves, while his cat marched behind him – unaware of Bellatrix's presence, until he walked past her. Immediately, his jaws dropped open, and he slumped backwards, leaning against the wall, as though nearly hanging onto it would give him some sort of protection. Slightly amused by his reaction, Bellatrix asked: "Which staircases will lead me down to the fields next to this tower?"

Filch was gasping for air. He avoided looking at Bellatrix with his eyes that were just as protruding as his cat's. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed at the staircases floating in mid-air near her. Bellatrix glared at him for a few seconds, though her attention began to fly elsewhere…

As she stared at the petrified expression on his face, her mind began to waver into thoughts that circled on the faces of the people she had tortured by Voldemort's orders.

'_Voldemort_,' the name entrenched into her mind; a snake slithered in her thoughts. The snake's slit-pupiled eyes bore into her mind, enlarging into a foggy figment until it blasted into pieces, while hisses of the name nearly all feared continued to blast through her thoughts: _Voldemort… Voldemort… Voldemort… _

Darkness loomed over her surroundings, drawing her in entirely. Filch's horrified face began to blur and fog until she found it no longer before herself…

The pain etched in the voices of her victims, as they pleaded for her to stop with the horrors she was inflicting on them, rumbled through her mind. They leaked like venom into her thoughts. Her chest began to rise and deflate riotously. She felt her knees wavering, and legs weakening. A faint flicker of an image of Filch's face shot into her mind, constraining her into a disposition where she was half in the present, and half lost in her thoughts – thoughts that were consuming her, and eating her inside-out – "LEAVE!" she screamed aloud at them.

"Ye – yes," she heard a weak and pathetic voice—the thoughts dimmed and dimmed, until she found herself staring at the space Filch had occupied moments ago. Turning to her left where she heard violent footsteps, she found the caretaker scrawling away out of her sight, believing she had yelled at him.

Once Filch had disappeared, Bellatrix shook her head coarsely, and swept her long dark locks with her slender fingers. Glancing with her enlarged eyes at the spiral staircases Filch had pointed at, she began to storm down them, shortly finding herself in another corridor on the ground floor. A large oak door loomed at the end of the corridor, and she strode towards it, half here and half in her mind – hearing the hollow and distant cries of her victims…

The door sprung open, and she felt a rush of warmth hailing towards her, embedding her with perspiration. She stepped outside, and was met with the wet fields she had spotted Harry marching on while in her chamber. Scanning her dark surroundings for Harry, she was met back with nothing. She began to trudge forwards on the wet grass, her heels shoving down into the muddied fields, making it hard for her to walk forwards with ease. After a few minutes, she slipped her heels out of her feet, holding them in one hand, as she walked forwards bare-footed with her wand in her other hand. "Lumos," she incanted, and her wand sprung with light at its tip. She swung her wand this way and that, realizing she could perhaps find Harry's footprints rooted onto the wet fields: To her contentment, she spotted footprints.

After trailing the footprints, she found herself in front of a dirt road that Harry had arrived at minutes prior to her coming. More footsteps were fixed on the dirt road, which too had turned into mostly sludge due to the rain. Little stones, twigs and pebbles lay on the road, and so Bellatrix flung her heels down, and plunged her feet back into them with a large groan, while thinking of where Harry could be heading in the wee hours of morning.

As she began to trek forwards on the dirt road, she casted the hood of her robe over her head: It was a habit learned from being the Ministry's most wanted for so long… But, she was now a former Death Eater. _Former. _Bellatrix scoffed at the writers of the articles whom had labeled her as a _former_ Death Eater.

No, she still was a Death Eater.

To be a Death Eater meant more than being Voldemort's supporter. It meant eliciting euphoria from the cries of your victims… it meant having a thirst for power – for the cries that horrified those that were weaker...

Filch's face spiraled into Bellatrix's mind, and she realized – as she continued to trudge forwards on the dirt road sluggishly, her heels wavering – that she had felt a flash of jubilation at Filch's horrified expression…

Because, she was tainted – once one embraced the darkness they had within, it was hard turning back to the light.

You were tainted by darkness forever.

Tainted.

'_I was always tainted.' _

Bellatrix was tainted from birth – she was born a Black... Black – the colour of death.

And Sirius, he too been born a Black. He had tried running away, but his past had haunted him. One could not simply run away from what ran through their veins. The Black blood pounded through Sirius – the sins of his ancestors coursed through his veins. And so, the past had caught with Sirius, leeched onto him... '_I – _his past... _killed _him.'

Andromeda.

'_Sweet little Andromeda.' _

A Black, she too had been. And, she too had run away.

Was her past after her?

Was it going to catch her and consume her... that is if it hadn't already?

Andromeda, almost the striking image of her eldest sister – but never her eldest sister. Andromeda, always yearning to be like Bellatrix. With her observant brown eyes, she would try to immolate whatever her eldest sister would do. From the way Bellatrix styled her hair, to the clothes she wore, to the way she even smiled, Andromeda tried to absorb every aspect of her eldest sister, and then reflect them. 'If only she had known,' Bellatrix thought. If only Andromeda had truly known how horrifying it would have been to be her eldest sister, she would have never desired it so.

'And perhaps now she knows', Bellatrix contemplated. 'Perhaps now she knows...'

_'But she'll never know everything.'_

Andromeda would never know the full horror of being Bellatrix Black.

By now, Bellatrix could see the late Victorian houses, and shops of Hogsmeade below a hill she now stood upon. The dirt road she was walking on would turn into bricks after a few minutes, and she would stop seeing Harry's footprints. Bellatrix needn't worry though – a derisive smirk surfaced on her face, as she found whom she had been searching for: Harry was standing beside the street before her, near the entrance of Hogsmeade, as though he was waiting for someone or something.

**oOo**

Harry was standing idle on the sidewalk waiting for the Knight Bus. He was glancing around his environs with his striking green eyes, staring at the various shops, all with 'closed' signs hanging behind their windows. It had been a few minutes, and the Knight Bus had not made its appearance. Confused as to why it was taking so long for the bus to appear, Harry drew in a sigh, and began to get fidgety: He thoughtlessly twirled his yew wand with his hand, as he waited impatiently for the bus.

Then, he heard an unexpected sound seep into his surroundings. Crunching his eyebrows for a few seconds while pondering over the sound, Harry came to the conclusion that it sounded like a woman's heels tapping against the ground. Waiting for it to stop, thinking it was just a sound accidently created by the wind, Harry found himself disappointed: The sound had continued to grow in breadth. He quickly turned himself around to where it was issuing: Approaching him was a woman with a hood casted over her face. She was wearing slim-fitted robes, and had a slender but curvaceous figure. He knew of one woman with a curvaceous figure at Hogsmeade – Rosmerta. Was she Rosmerta? On second thought, Harry changed his mind: This woman was much taller than the landlady of the Three Broomsticks, and her figure was much more eye-catching as well – little did Harry know that this woman was Bellatrix.

He stopped twirling his yew wand, and for a few seconds thought of pointing it at the woman headed his way, but decided against it – she didn't seem much of a threat. However, the woman had caught on what he had formerly planned on doing. She chuckled. "A duel against me, Potter?" she hissed. The moonlight slowly began to reveal her face, as she approached nearer. Harry had heard _that _sardonic yet silken voice before. He viewed the long dark curls hanging beside her half-hidden face.

_'Ten inches away. Eight away. Six inches away. Four inches away.'_ Bellatrix was now only an inch or two away from Harry. He watched her in a stunned form, as she pulled down her hood, and revealed her face. Her lips were coiled into a faint smirk, but her eyes were dead, though after deeply looking into them, Harry could spot faint curiosity in her otherwise vacant black pools.

'_Merlin_,' he thought.

He had been caught.

At least, Snape hadn't caught him. On second note, he might have preferred being caught by Snape than her.

He was waiting for Bellatrix to say something – be at anything, but he noted that her eyes were now glued elsewhere: Her dark eyes had enlarged, and she was viewing something from behind Harry's shoulders. Feeling confused, his thoughts escaped his lips when he asked, "What is it?"

Bellatrix didn't respond, she began marching forwards, past Harry, as though he didn't exist. Harry turned around, crunching his eyebrows, and began to follow her. She looked back. "Get away!" she hissed, it was an order – more of a warning now that Harry thought of it, but being ever-reckless, he could care less.

Unexpectedly, he spotted a figure in the dark– a tall figure of what seemed to be a young man, walking slyly into an alley: Bellatrix was following him, as though she knew who he was. "Who's that?" Harry called.

She wrung her head around to face him, and stopped in her tracks, as did he, and viewed him for a minute or two. "Get back to Hogwarts, '' she then said, breaking the silence.

"No," Harry replied, firmly – he would not be wavered from his decision. Seeing this, Bellatrix huffed in, having no time to waste, and began to march onwards again with Harry resuming to trail her as well.

**oOo**

"Who is he?" Harry asked, referring to the figure she was following.

They were now closer to the alley the figure had disappeared into. Bellatrix stopped in front of one of the shops near the alley. She turned around to Harry, took in a deep breath, and for a sheer second Harry thought he was going to be met back with her usual snaps, but his theory had turned out incorrect. "_Draco," _Bellatrix said.

Harry's mouth sprung open. After collecting himself, he responded – "In his compartment, I overheard him speaking about Voldemort and how—" He stopped speaking when he noticed that Bellatrix had winced when he had said Voldemort. He stared silently at Bellatrix, as she reeled her face away from Harry, and began to slowly march near the alley, pretending she hadn't flinched at Voldemort's name.

Shortly, the two of them peeped into the alley: Harry found three figures standing at the very end of it. The alley did not lead to another street, but rather the back of a dilapidated house. Harry very well knew that one of the figures was Draco; he could see Draco's sleek blonde hair shining under the moonlight. He overheard Bellatrix – for a second, he thought she was speaking to him, but later on realized she was mostly speaking to herself. "It's a safe house," Bellatrix whispered. "It's one of the safe houses for Death Eaters at Hogsmeade."

"Of course," Harry inadvertently commented.

Startled, Bellatrix looked up to Harry: She hadn't realized Harry was nearly a head taller than her. In the Department of Mysteries, she was sure he had been inches shorter. She took two steps back, and pulled Harry with herself, realizing the two of them had been far too near the front of the alley. "You can see it?" she asked, alarmed.

Harry tilted an eyebrow, feeling confused. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I — "

The two of them were speaking in whispers. "Because," Bellatrix interrupted, "only those with the Dark Mark are able to see safe houses."

"I—oh—so why can I see it?" Harry stammered.

While he viewed Bellatrix as she bit her lips in contemplation, he realized this had been the first time the two were conversing to each other in a civilized manner. A sudden torrent of anger directed towards himself, rushed through him – had he turned his back on Sirius? But – Sirius had wished for her to remain safe. However, _she_ had _stolen_ from him the closest link he had to family: Harry's hands morphed into fists – just as _she_ had _stolen_ a certain boy's parents…

'_Thief,'_ he thought.

Bellatrix gazed at Harry and noticed the fire burning in his green eyes. She knew Harry detested her – but for a few minutes she had completely forgotten their animosity when they had viewed Draco in the alley, and while she had pondered over why he was able to see the safe house. She turned her gaze around, away from Harry and his green eyes that raged with hatred, and tried to focus on Draco and why he had been asked to go to the safe house for Death Eaters at Hogsmeade.

And then it sunk in.

Draco's arm had to be etched with the Dark Mark, as how else would he be able to see the safe house? Lucius had failed at retrieving the prophecy, and Draco had to pay for his father's failure, and perhaps – Bellatrix apprehended, Draco had to pay for his aunt's treachery as well.

It made perfect sense.

Her chest felt heavy, as certain words from a particular sister sprawled into her mind – _"You turned your back on your family so easily, _Bellatrix_. Do you not know what you've done?" _

Was _this w_hat Narcissa had meant? Was Draco on a mission – a mission Bellatrix knew would be futile, for why else would the Dark Lord sent him on it?

Bellatrix turned around to Harry, and noticed that his eyes had lost the rage she had seen in them moments ago. She gazed down at her chest, and found it rising and falling harshly – she was breathing roughly—

"Bellatrix?"

Bellatrix raised her gaze away from her chest, and looked up at Harry. He had said her name with such gentleness – his tone had been as comforting as a soft blanket. While feeling startled, Bellatrix realized he had never called her by her first-name before. Since when had they been on first-name basis? Her eyebrows coiled, her voice was as cold as Harry's had been warm, "Let's go, Potter, before Draco walks out—"

She felt Harry's vigorous hand curl around her wrist, and found herself being pulled to his back. Confused for a sheer second, she fumbled and moved her head a bit to Harry's side…

And there, before her – she found a familiar lined face staring at her with a façade of fondness: It was Yaxley. "Ah, Bellatrix – how nice to see you!" the Death Eater smiled, his face half-hidden behind his robe's hood. He had his wand pointed directly at her. "You've never turned down a duel. And, oh! I see you with Mr. Potter. How interesting... How _very_ interesting to see you by his side… "

"Shut up!" Harry shot back, his reaction unforeseen by Bellatrix.

Yaxley ignored Harry's response, but he turned to point his wand at Harry instead of her, though his eyes were conversely glued on Bellatrix, whom Harry shielded with his back. Harry still had his hand curled around her wrist, and whenever she tried to move away, he would fling her closer to his back.

The Death Eater drawled on, "I must ask, why are you two out at such a time? I never knew you were _interested_ in young men whose breaths still smell of milk, _Bella._"

Immediately, upon hearing those words, Bellatrix plunged her hand into her pocket to grasp her wand. "Move away, Potter!" she hissed. Turning her attention towards Yaxley, she said corrosively, "Of course I'll duel you, _Yaxley."_

Yaxley was correct – Bellatrix had never turned down an offer for a duel.

She was suddenly startled by a voice she wasn't expecting to hear – "No," Harry had stated, firmly. "Apparate us out of here. Don't be rash – we're right in front of a safe house for Death Eaters. There could be more."

Bellatrix did not heed to Harry's orders. Instead, she placed the tip of her wand by his neck. "Potter – remove your hand from my wrist," she hissed, but Harry did not wince at all by the touch of her wand's tip. She felt enraged, and forced the tip of her wand deeper into the nape of his neck. Her breaths touched his earlobe, as she whispered, "Now… " Her voice trailed off, she had found familiar grey eyes settled on her: Draco had appeared by Yaxley's side. The hand she was holding her wand with sharply fell to her side, her wand slipping away from Harry's neck.

She heard her nephew speak. "Ya – Yaxley," Draco whispered. "I – I don't think this is the right time for a duel, we're near Hogwarts – there could be more. Not – Not now, please."

Bellatrix crunched her eyebrows: Was Draco trying to protect her? She viewed her nephew, as he looked back and forth from Yaxley to her and Harry.

"Are you frightened, Draco?" Yaxley inquired of Draco. "The Dark Lord will win, it shan't matter if you're expelled from a mud-blood loving institute."

"But the Dark Lord," Draco retorted, "wouldn't want it. Not now. You know this."

Bellatrix felt Harry's fingers squeeze her wrist snugger: Her hand began to feel numb. However, she was far too engrossed by the chat that was taking place between Draco and Yaxley to really care. She viewed Yaxley: His hood had fallen, and she could see that his eyebrows had wrinkled, making his face appear even more lined than before.

Yaxley looked away from Draco, and turned his gaze back to Bellatrix. A very thin and cutting smirk sprung on his face. "Well then," he said. "Perhaps, next time." And then, before Bellatrix could react with a sharp response, Yaxley had wrapped his hand around Draco's arm, and with a pop, the two of them had vanished into thin air.

Her hand had now completely gone numb. Having forgotten Harry had his hand enveloped around her wrist, Bellatrix gazed below to see why she couldn't feel her hand. There, she noticed Harry's hand wrapped firmly around her wrist. She tried to pull away, while Harry, whom had also forgotten he had been holding onto Bellatrix so firmly, turned around to face her. He wavered, as he looked into her dark orbs.

The two were blankly staring at each other for a second or two – both looking into each other's eyes that glistened with similar questions. Harry suddenly realized his hold on Bellatrix, and let go. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, though soon apprehending he had just apologized to her, and feeling angry with himself for doing so.

Bellatrix had immediately spotted vehemence in his eyes, but hadn't responded to it. She brushed her fingers around her wrists, on the faint silver marks she had carved there years and years ago, though now temporarily hidden by bruises caused by Harry's firm hold. Pulling down the sleeve of her robe, she covered her wrists, hoping Harry hadn't seen those scars. Then, she looked up at the sky: A faint and thin orange line had appeared in the otherwise dark sky – it was early dawn. "We should get going," she said. Knowing that it was impossible to Apparate into Hogwarts, she began to walk away, back towards the hill with the dirt road that led to one of Hogwarts exits.

Harry caught up to her side. "We should inform Dumbledore," he said to Bellatrix, "of Draco and what we have seen."

Bellatrix snappily spun her head around to Harry. He watched her dark eyes, and realized the woman striding beside him was none other than Draco's aunt. And from her eyes, he could tell that she didn't wish for him to inform Dumbledore of what they had seen. "But – he's a threat!" he exclaimed.

Bellatrix gazed at Harry for a few seconds, alarmed at how he had spotted her thoughts in her eyes. Quite frankly, Bellatrix thought she did not care much for Draco – she found him exasperating. He was not only the spitting image of Lucius – something that quite infuriated her – but he shared many traits with him as well. However, he was Narcissa's son – _Cissy's child_ – Bellatrix began to remember a certain day…

_Bellatrix was sitting on her knees on the marble floor of Malfoy Manor, beside the bed Narcissa was sprawled upon; it had been more than six hours since Bellatrix had been seated in such a position, her knees simply ached. "Bella," Narcissa whimpered, as the span between her contractions began to lessen. Narcissa held more firmly onto Bellatrix's hand – "Bella!" she cried, a tear streaming down her face. _

_Narcissa had always been such a weakling. Bellatrix brushed her blonde locks away from her perspiring and agonized face, and tried to smile at her. In those few seconds, she remembered Narcissa's face when she had been a child, when she would read bedtime stories to those blue eyes, and assure her that there weren't any monsters under her bed and in her closet. _

_Bellatrix kissed Narcissa on her forehead. "It'll be alright, Cissy. Don't worry," she whispered, gently. However, this time, Bellatrix was lying to Narcissa, unlike the times when she had assured her there were no beasts or dangers under her bed and in her closet. Bellatrix, with eyebrows furrowed in concern, turned her head to the mid-wife. The mid-wife gazed back at her, shaking her head mildly with a thin frown; Narcissa hadn't noticed the silent conversation between Bellatrix and the mid-wife. _

_"My chest, Bella – my chest," Narcissa complained, she was breathing rapidly. Bellatrix shut her eyes, trying hard not to cry, and turned to face Narcissa again. __Narcissa was suffering from a uterine rapture – it meant she would not only go through a terribly painful labor, but her baby could die and she could too._

_The mid-wife tapped Bellatrix on the shoulder. Bellatrix sprung her head away from Narcissa to her – the mid-wife was holding a potion in her hand. "A blood replenishing potion, she needs it." _

_Bellatrix nodded in response, and gazed down at Narcissa, taking the vase from the mid-wife's hand. "__Cissy," Bellatrix whispered, "you need to drink this." Narcissa, meanwhile, had her eyes closed, tears mixing with perspiration on her face…_

"Will we be standing here all day?"

Bellatrix winced.

For the past few seconds or so, Harry had been watching her, startled by how idly she had been standing; he had known from her expression that she had been adrift in her thoughts.

While he viewed Bellatrix, she responded with a blank stare. Slowly, she was beginning to comprehend where she was and with whom. Then, she turned around to face Hogwarts, and began to march forwards on the dirt road, while remembering the last few bits of the memory…

_"She lives," the mid-wife said to Bellatrix, while a sleeping and pale Narcissa lay on the bed she had just delivered her child on. Bellatrix smiled in relief, hot tears that she had restrained fell down from her eyes. The mid-wife opened her lips to speak again, "However, she won't be able to bear more children–__" _

_The news cut like jagged knives into Bellatrix's heart. Bellatrix wiped her tears away, her eyes enlarging. It had always been Narcissa's dream to have plentiful children, and a large family: Narcissa would never see her dream morph into reality..._

_Bellatrix nodded her head coarsely, while the mid-wife handed her the little bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. Lucius was on one of his business trips overseas, and Narcissa had delivered her child without his presence: It had pained Narcissa terribly to be without her husband, and Bellatrix had been infuriated by Lucius's absence – how could a man leave his heavily pregnant wife behind, and go abroad? He was such an insensitive, pompous arsehole ... 'Merlin knows what Narcissa sees in him," Bellatrix mused. _

_Her dark eyes glanced down at the little bundle the mid-wife had handed to her. The infant had alert grey eyes. He had made Narcissa suffer so, but Bellatrix could not help but smile down at the gurgling child. 'How deeply Rodolphus desires to have an heir', Bellatrix thought, as she stared at the infant in her arms. _

_However, Bellatrix was internally joyful at Rodolphus's inability to have an heir, no matter the harsh suffering she would go through due to it... _

_For, __Rodolphus – like her father – was a monster. _

_Bellatrix knew she would not be able to bear having a child of_ his_ in her womb…_

"Where are you going?" Harry's voice reeled into her head.

Thunderstruck by his voice, Bellatrix turned around to face him: He was standing beside one of the entrances to the school, staring at her with large and confused eyes. Meanwhile, Harry once more knew she had been wandering in her thoughts, like a phantom lost in the life it had once lived.

Glancing at her surroundings, Bellatrix realized she had nearly gone into the Forbidden Forest; the forest's large trees were just a few feet away from her. Turning away from the forest, she trekked towards the entrance Harry was standing by, while the sun slowly began to rise above them.

Shortly, the two of them began to march past the corridors where busy-bodied students were making their way to the Great Hall to have breakfast.

**oOo**

Hermione was seated next to Ron who had a grim expression on his face. He was staring inertly at his schedule, while Hermione searched with wide eyes around the Great Hall in an attempt to find Harry. "Are you sure he said he was going to go to the Common Room?" she asked, reeling her head around to Ron with crumpled eyebrows.

"Yes, I'm sure," Ron replied, for the hundredth time.

The Great Hall was erupting in chatter as students stormed in, and seated themselves at their allocated tables. Hermione spotted Crabbe and Goyle walking towards the Slytherin table, and to her surprise she didn't find Draco amongst them. She turned her head around to Ron. "Draco's not accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle," she whispered to him. "Do you think Draco and Harry – might've run into each other?" she asked.

"I-don't-know," Ron mumbled, as food sprung onto their tables. He slapped his schedule onto his lap. He frowned. "Snape in the morning – just great. Just great," he grumbled, as he spread some jam, and peanut butter on his toast.

"RON?" Hermione bellowed. "How could you be so calm while Harry has disappeared?"

Ron whirled his head around to Hermione, only to have his mouth leap open as he viewed something behind her. "Er'mion'ee," he gasped, while some bits of toast he had chewed on plopped out of his mouth, and dropped down to his plate.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Ron, that's disgusting!" However, she turned frantic when Ron continued to stare beyond her shoulder. She turned her head around to where Ron's eyes were seated: Bellatrix and Harry had walked into the Great Hall. She noticed that the two of them had grass and mud stains around the edges of their robes.

While Bellatrix strode towards the staff table, Hermione watched Harry, as he turned around to the Gryffindor table, and arrived before her and Ron with a forced smile on his face. He seated himself beside the two of them, and grabbed some orange juice and a chocolate muffin, as though nothing at all had happened. "Where were you?" Hermione asked, cooping an eyebrow.

Harry turned around to her with a mouth half-full. "Huh?" he slurred, as he swallowed the muffin he had chewed on with some orange juice. Hermione wrinkled her eyebrows: Harry was hiding something.

Harry noticed the look on Hermione's face, and knew acting dumb wasn't going to staunch her inquisitiveness. "Oh, I just went for a walk," Harry said, lying.

Hermione tilted her head. "With Professor Black?" she snapped.

"She caught me – I went out to the fields for a walk when it was barely morning," he quickly retorted, telling half the truth.

"She caught you?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, unsure if he was being truthful or not. "So, do you have detention?"

"I – er – Bella– Black – uh yes, she did give me detention. Today, after my last class," he stammered, choking on his muffin, while realizing that he had to get away from Ron and Hermione for around an hour or two after his last class, under the pretense that he was going to have detention with Bellatrix. Now that he thought of it, why hadn't Bellatrix given him detention—

Hermione had interrupted his thoughts. "You're telling me _she _of all people let you slip by?"

Harry stared inelegantly at Hermione, as he stuffed the last bits of his chocolate muffin into his mouth, while he wondered – had Bellatrix even informed Dumbledore of the incident that had taken place in her compartment?

"What's your problem Hermione?" Ron joined the conversation – he had finished eating his toast, and was now munching on a sandwich. Hermione swelled her eyes at Ron in fury. "Calm down – eat something!" Ron barked, as he viewed the enraged look on Hermione's face. Breathing harshly, Hermione turned around and smacked some cream cheese onto her toast. "What a wonderful start to the school year," Ron then commented.

Meanwhile, Harry had turned his attention away from his bickering friends to Bellatrix: She had seated herself beside the staff table, and had her elbow placed on the surface of the table, while her slender hand cupped her head, and her other hand twirled a spoon around in a hot beverage. Harry knew she was lost deep in thought like she had been on their way to Hogwarts. As he continued to view Bellatrix, he soon found her lifting her gaze from her cup of coffee to the Slytherin table – Harry knew exactly why. He turned his head around, and found Crabbe and Goyle and Draco's others friends, all conversing with one another dynamically without Draco's presence.

After a few minutes of watching the Slytherin table, Harry turned gaze back to the staff table, where he assumed Bellatrix was seated – he found the seat she had occupied empty. His eyebrows furrowed, and he turned around to Hermione and Ron who were munching on their foods, both quiet and solemn. "I have to go to the lavatory," Harry lied to the two of them, slipping out of his seat. Hermione turned her head around to him from the toast she had daubed with cream cheese. Harry stared back at her – knowing she was doubtful of the excuse he had given to her and Ron. "What?" Harry chirped, faking a smile. "Are you going to come with me to the boy's lavatory?"

Hermione rumpled her eyebrows, and turned her gaze around to Ron. "Ron, go with Harry," she said.

Harry was about to tell Hermione he could go the lavatory on his own when Ron puckered his lips in anger. "Why should I follow your orders?" Ron snapped, and with that, he removed himself from his seat, and walked away from her – sitting beside Seamus, Dean and Neville further down the Gryffindor table…

Neville…

A knot formed in Harry's stomach, he viewed Neville for a few seconds, before turning away from the Gryffindor table, and heading out of the Great Hall to find the woman who had driven Neville's parents into insanity.

As soon as he had walked out of the Great Hall, he spotted a long mane of silken black curls disappear into the adjacent corridor to his right. He began to stomp forwards, when he heard a familiar voice call him from behind – "Harry?" It was Luna.

Harry turned his face around to Luna, and stared at the young witch with dreamy eyes. "Oh, Luna. Hey!" Harry forced a fake smile, though he was feeling slightly irritated by her sudden presence.

Behind Luna, a group of her fellow Ravenclaws marched past her into the Great Hall, and they all giggled when they spotted 'Looney Lovegood'. With them, Harry spotted Cho Chang. She was trying hard not to join the wicked conversations her friends were having about Luna when her eyes had spotted Harry. However, when her friend – Marietta Edgecombe – who had her face covered in heavy makeup to cover the pimples that spelled 'Sneak' – asked Cho why she was acting so odd, she began to laugh with them. Meanwhile, Luna pretended not to notice, and at that moment, Harry suddenly realized Cho was nothing more than a pretty girl.

He turned his attention back to Luna. She was still standing before the entrance to the Great Hall. "Hey Luna. Want to have breakfast with me outside by the Qudditch field?" Harry asked, after having seen that Luna was tormented even by her fellow Ravenclaws, though he would have much rather preferred to find out where Bellatrix had disappeared.

"No. It's alright, Harry," Luna smiled back, and then she said something else that was a bit inaudible to Harry amidst the commotion of students heading to the Great Hall, but Harry swore he had heard Luna say something along the lines of: '_You should go after her. She's hurting, Harry.__'_

* * *

Author's Note: So that was Chapter 11. I looked over it once or twice to edit any errors, but if you find any typos or grammatical mistakes, please feel free to bring them to my attention. Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed reading this chapter. Feel free to leave a review – your reviews truly mean a lot to me! =)

And to my dear reviewers that I can't reply back to using the private messaging system:

LittleLeStrange67: Thank you so much for leaving a review in my previous chapter!

Guest: I'm not too sure right now if I should do the de-aging thing, as currently I wish to explore how a 16 y/o boy could form a relationship with an older woman. But you never know, and I might do it later on if it somehow helps progress the plot. :)


	12. The Longbottoms

Note (April 9, 2013): I haven't given up on this story. I'm currently editing the past chapters, and plotting the future ones. I'm sorry for the slow updates. I know, it's been a month or two since the last update, but life gets in the way. Again, I'm sorry.

* * *

**Chapter 12: The Longbottoms **

There was stiffening silence though there was noise all around. Breathe. Breathe. Her chest felt constricted, and her feet were moving aimlessly, wandering the hallways like a ghost searching for long-lost life. Soon, her pace began to mimic her rising pulse. Run. Run. Run. Escape. She had always run. And was running away again. Somewhere, she found the sun's rays dancing on her skin, warming her, coercing her to stop, to breathe, to still, to feel and yet not to feel.

Rubbing her forehead, she gazed upwards at the bright sun. Leaning against an ancient brick wall of one of the towers, Bellatrix slowly slumped down, sitting in a fetal position, her head jamming against her knees. Breathe. Breathe. After a long deep breath, she hugged herself tightly. Thoughts poured in. One by one, skinning her inside out.

What was she doing here at Hogwarts? What a laughable thought: Bellatrix Black teaching at Hogwarts! Why was she here when the Dark Mark on her arm was glowing more vibrant with everyday – when Voldemort was gaining more strength with each passing night? She was one of them.

A killer.

She danced in blood. She swam in blood, feeling euphoric when she would perceive the very liquid of life pouring out of a being; the life dwindling away from their eyes, until they were left dead, impaled on the ground, their chests stilled.

_Oh_, how terribly she missed the sight!

Crunching her hair, rubbing her forehead, she let out a sigh while Sirius's frivolous eyes swirled into her thoughts.

His smile.

Memories long forgotten were now swinging into her mind in full force. 'Go away,' she mentally hissed at them. It was easier a few months ago. Life was easier at Azkaban. The thought of living was all that had mattered. The thought of re-tasting that force once Voldemort had re-emerged, that ineffable force though referred to as power – of seeing people drop to their knees, kissing the hems of your robes, pleading for dear life – was all that had mattered.

A faint, small, almost fictional croak left her pink lips.

Narcissa would be gone. Gone. Gone. Vanished, if Draco's life ended. 'Cissy… Oh, 'Meda…. What happened?' Bellatrix thought, as memories of what had once been – of three sisters – dark, fair and lovely – pirouetted through her mind. Draco had been given a life sentence – in turn, Narcissa had been given one too. This was Voldemort's revenge; his retaliation was always the taciturn but most potent kind, and Bellatrix had once revered it. And more often than not, Bellatrix had been the tool used to carry it out. Weakly, she chuckled at the irony of the situation.

Meanwhile, a large shadow was nearing her. "Are yeh alright?" the man to whom the shadow belonged to asked. In a matter of a few seconds, a hawthorn wand was pointed directly at him. His eyebrows quickly furrowed and his lips shut; his expression turning grim.

Bellatrix gazed deeply at him, her mien and gaze being empty, customary of her: 'Hagrid the Giant,' she remembered. His name was Hagrid. She evoked to mind the time her ankle had been accidently broken when she had tripped over and fallen after Sirius had chased her down through the Qudditch fields at Hogwarts. Hagrid had then carried her away, and taken her to Madam Pomfrey; Sirius and his friends had always been very close with the giant gamekeeper at Hogwarts. Upon further inspection of the giant, she noticed he looked no different than he did decades ago; he was still as tall as ever, and just as large.

Meanwhile, Hagrid was about to turn around when he noticed the 'A.F' carved on her wand. "Alice… Alice's wand," he muttered. The veins in his neck began to tighten while Bellatrix took a few steps back, startled by how he had known the wand had belonged to her. "I reckon yeh won it when yeh turned her unstable," the giant snarled before turning away, marching through the green fields, heading to his hut further off...

Moments had now passed.

Bellatrix still stood rigid on the grassy field, her back inclining against the cool and ancient brick wall of the tower behind her. Perspiration had lathered on her forehead. _"I reckon yeh won it when yeh turned her unstable," Hagrid had said._ Her hold on the wand began to falter; her slender hand began to tremor, soon releasing its grip on the magical instrument.

The wand crashed to the ground; she had heard the slight thud, though almost nonexistent, when it had landed.

And she knew the memory could no longer be halted.

So she started once more.

Run. Run.

* * *

October 31st, 1981 – Halloween

The emblem of death had not as of yet been shone in the sky, above this dwelling, although two had died _unquestionably,_ as she had heard the cry of death escape from their lips, as after all, it was a tune her ears could catch from miles away.

Awaiting her master, she stood still behind one of the large pine trees, her dark hood casted over her head while she began to grow impatient, but her Lord had ordered her to stay put, as Bellatrix was here in case of any inconveniences, and the Dark Lord would call on her when in need of her presence. The Dark Mark on her arm had not stung her veins below where it was etched as of yet, and so she remained still, watching the house with her dark pools, awaiting for her master's return or call with eagerness.

It was she who had been chosen, secretly, without anyone's awareness, to accompany the Dark Lord to the Potter's cottage – she was after all, his most trusted lieutenant – the thought elated her.

Bellatrix had arrived minutes prior to her Lord's coming; standing still behind the large tree, gazing with livid eyes at the home – the home which kept within it the child that would bring the Dark Lord's death – as Snape had said it had been prophesied.

Speaking of Snape, lately he had been acting quite odd, and Bellatrix had noted – with her great acute observations – that his eyes seemed to lower whenever the mentioning of the Potter boy occurred, as though he was deeply remorseful for telling the Lord he had overheard the prophecy in the Leaky Cauldron. However, Bellatrix wasn't keen on sharing her observation as of yet to anyone, as the Dark Lord was appreciative, at least as thankful as he could be to Snape.

Barks fell on the ground; her fingers touched her palms and pricked slightly. Gazing down, she noticed she had been holding firmly onto the pine tree's trunk. As she brushed her hands on her black robe to get rid of the remnants of the barks, she suddenly heard the cry of a child – a deep and distressed cry – her heart thumped and she gazed immediately upwards, away from her robe, at the cottage where it had issued. So, it was being done… the menace would soon be rid of—

But the cry of the child loitered onwards—

The cry rumbled and thundered through her mind, but the Dark Mark had not stung once. The Dark Lord had not called upon her, and yet the child had not been slain either.

Perplexed, Bellatrix was about to stomp forwards, to see what was occurring within the house when – "No stop, Bella," she whispered and halted in her tracks, reminding herself that the Dark Lord would be vexed if she were to disobey his orders.

Then suddenly, in the shadows a man appeared, Apparating before the house. Immediately, her slim hand entered the pocket of her sleek robe, but it could not grasp her walnut wand, could not take it out of there, as she was far too startled, far too alarmed when the moonlight revealed the man's identity…

It was Snape.

Severus Snape.

She intently watched him as he entered the dwelling; now back behind the pine tree. Then, after a short few minutes, she heard a man's cry – it was etched with absolute sorrow – with absolute grief, all while the child's cry grew louder, and began to mingle with his until it was one mournful ballad.

Her assumption had turned to be correct, but that was the least of what concerned her. Two had died within the house, but one was still alive. The one intended to die still breathed…

And the Dark Mark did not dawdle over the Potter's cottage.

Dead.

The Dark Lord was gone.

Nothing.

She would be nothing.

Nothing.

_"No_," Bellatrix hissed. It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

Looking down at her arm, the Dark Mark was slowly diminishing; the vibrant green of the serpent dying until it was just a small faint mark.

But the small, faint mark did not vanish.

He was alive.

* * *

"And how are you sure that the Longbottoms are aware of the whereabouts of our Lord?" Rodolphus inquired, raising an eyebrow, giving her a questionable look.

_'Do not question me.'_

Bellatrix glared at him with her dark pools, her face emotionally vacant of the rousing rage beneath her calm mask, as she sipped on the red wine and placed it back on the deep mahogany table at the Lestrange Manor. "They're the most top-ranked Aurors and closest to Dumbledore," she whispered, her lips thinned. "They will know, if there is anything to know, Lestrange." She had not once called Rodolphus with his first name since the Dark Mark had been imprinted on her arm.

Her husband tensed and nodded faintly, rising up from his seat and directing one of the house-elves to clear the ornate dinner table of their grimy dishes. "When shall we go?" he questioned, waiting for his wife's order after turning around from one of the house-elves.

Her lips faintly turned upwards at the sight of her husband waiting for her command.

Of him being so pathetic.

"_Now_," she tersely replied, sipping on her glass of red wine while the table before them was being cleared of their plates. "And inform the most loyal to accompany us," she quickly added.

A swift dismal look fell on Rodolphus's face – he was hesitant. To her, this was an act of disobedience, an act that had become more frequent since the Dark Lord's disappearance. Her hand curled tightly around her glass of wine, shattering it into pieces; blood oozed from her porcelain skin, but she took no note. A small second of silence commenced, before she shattered it: "What is it? Spout your views, Lestrange!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

_Deranged._

"Nothing pet," he hastily mumbled back, his head bowing just slightly while his eyes widened and enlarged at the sight of the red substance staining her slender, ivory hands.

A smirk played on her exquisite face. "It is merely my blood, Lestrange," she murmured. "Why are you so troubled, _m'love_, when you were once so rapt to see it drench me whole?"

Rodolphus remained silent; his gaze was settled on the Persian rug on the ground, his hands were clenched together in hidden anger behind his back. He had seen what she had done to her victims in her spouts of fury, and so he persisted to stand hushed before her while she smirked once more, her plump lips twitching upwards just slightly at their ends. _Oh_, she was beautiful – like a sheet of luxurious silk covering a piercing, deadly dagger. He heard her purr with scathe, "Leave now … _m'love_."

And Rodolphus did as she commanded – their roles reversed ever since the symbol of death had adorned his wife's smooth skin.

* * *

A child's cry could be heard from upstairs while a young couple were straddled onto two wooden chairs, their hands clasped tightly behind their backs, open wounds garnishing their skin. A faint cackle was heard and then a low whisper: "Tell me now, where is the Dark Lord?" the woman spoke, the leader of the pack. The woman's dark curls framed her face, as her livid eyes bore into Alice Longbottom's. Meanwhile, Alice gazed deeply at the woman's dark, large ones.

"Mrs. Lestrange," Alice whispered while her son's cries began to grow louder. "Please,'' she begged, "we do not know."

Another cackle escaped from the woman's lips. "Crucio," she whispered, this time verbally; though she was proficient at casting them non-verbally, it delighted her to see the twisting of muscles and the clenching of lips when she slowly drawled the world to the Cruciatus curse.

"They do not know, Bellatrix," Rodolphus whispered in his wife's ear. "It's apparent––"

"_Crucio_," Bellatrix hissed, cutting Rodolphus. Alice Longbottom writhed, her head slamming back and forth against the chair, blood flowing through her nostrils, tainting the lower portion of her pixie-like face. "Shut it Lestrange and do as I say," Bellatrix commanded. 'Crucio,' she said mentally, and Alice Longbottom began to dance to the song of the Cruciatus curse once more.

Rodolphus obliged and did as she said – his elm wand twirling with hers in harmony while the two other Death Eaters commenced to torment the young couple as well. Bellatrix lips flicked upwards as she viewed her husband's wand swishing this way and that like hers in unison - for once, they were together in accord, even if in the most wicked of evils... _oh _morality was long lost, all that now mattered was to stop recalling it.

_'Crucio.' _

The hearth was burning wood, the interior of their dwelling was calm and warm – a sardonic joke of the gods aimed at the young couple's plight; Bellatrix faintly chuckled at the thought, while her wand's tip continued to ignite one of the most painful of the Unforgivables. Alice Longbottom was about to give her final implore. "Please — I have a son — a baby!" she pleaded, and as if on note, her son's cries began to deepen.

_"Crucio," _Bellatrix slowly whispered, her slender hand elegantly whirling her walnut wand before Alice's agonized form. Her victim began to toss back and forth again, her very essence jerking.

They had been useless, and it was best for them to be rid of when Aurors came to the scene. "Avada Kedav–" Bellatrix began when suddenly, Frank Longbottom managed to say from a deep state of unconsciousness: "Please," he whispered. "I love her... "

* * *

_"Please," he whispered. "I love her... "_

Feet pounding against the ground. Her robe bellowing as she ran. Bellatrix found herself running aimlessly in the corridors again, with nobody there to see her running from life, from herself, from her thoughts, from it all. So pathetic. So pathetic. She had always run. She had never found a way out. The Dark Mark had just given her a temporary escape, only to be plunged into stiffening reality once more. Run. Run. That's all she had ever done.

There was light at the end of this corridor, unlike the rest she had stormed through. She was somewhere in the large great castle, perhaps a place few had been... Hogwarts like life could never be fully explored. The window at the end of the corridor was large. Sunlight was peering in through it, glistening the ancient laminate flooring her feet were thumping against. Time was irreversible, but it had seemed to still for just a second, as she gazed at the sun's rays against the ground.

All around her were knights standing still, next to each other, portraits of them hanging against the walls. Their long, shimmering swords were held firmly in their hands, and they almost seemed alive, though they were just armours of dead, righteous men of long ago.

Few had entered this place. Dirt had swathed the floor below, and the sun amplified how greatly it covered every item and thing in the corridor. Bellatrix's heart beat against her chest, as she glared at the portraits on the walls: they were knights, dressed in their armour, the very armour in this room, and were sitting around a round table with a large and handsome man, a crown perched on top his fair head. Perplexed, she gazed at them as they stared back, a thin smile peering across all their faces. "It has happened!" one of them whispered, putting down a playing card.

"A joker!" one frowned. "That is not just!"

Bellatrix walked nearer towards the portrait. "Not all is just," one whispered, consoling his friend. "Not all is fair," the other knight murmured. "With darkness there is light," another added.

"Where am I?" Bellatrix asked the miniature knights in the portrait.

The king was the one to answer. He smiled serenely, his handsome face turning even more picturesque. "Where few have been, milady," he explained.

Bellatrix huffed in exasperation. "How do I go back?" she asked.

"Retrieve your steps and find where you went lost," he responded. Taking in another sigh, Bellatrix turned around, knowing they would speak in rhymes and equivocations all day. "But wait milady!" the king screamed out to her through the portrait.

She quickly turned around, rubbing her forehead. "What?!" she hissed at him in frustration.

The king smiled as he shuffled the deck of cards, placed them on the round table, and began to hand them over to his knights. Still smiling, he said: "There is always help when one is lost," before he recommenced to play a game of cards with his knights.

Bellatrix took in a deep breath, and turned around, beginning to look out through the window...

Help had never once been there when she was lost.

**oOo**

Heart racing, sweat lathered on every inch of his skin, Harry's knees finally buckled and he gave in to his exhaustion, pivoting down to the floor in an unfamiliar area at Hogwarts. Everywhere he had seen black curls, black silken curls that had haunted his sight, causing him to lose his way, but the woman to whom the curls belonged to had not been found. Hallucinations, they had been. Most of the time, anyway. Just once, he was sure he had heard her, heard her heels tapping furiously against the ground – but she had disappeared, vanished just when he had presumed he had found her at last.

Panting, his hands firm on the ground, his jade green eyes rose from the laminate floor to the walls in the large corridor he had now found himself in. There were portraits hanging on the walls, within them were wizards and witches from the Renaissance period, with their large, grandiose wigs, and extravagant attires. There was stillness and silence within every inch of where he now was. An old wizard within the portrait, with a crooked nose, and one lens perched upon it, queried: "Are you okay, young man?"

Harry nodded mildly, and with all the energy he had left, pushed himself off the ground, turning around to face the portrait that had spoken to him. Rubbing away perspiration from his forehead, he inquired: "Where am I?"

"Are you looking for her, young chap?" a plump witch asked from an adjacent portrait. "If so, she went that way," she said, pointing to her right.

A small smile creeped up on Harry's face; he bobbed his head. "Thank you," he whispered, and began to storm to his right. Running and running until the corridors began to seem as though a portal, taking him from the renaissance period all the way to the medieval times. And at last, he found himself at a dead end, in a stillness that expressed he was the first being to enter the area after a prolonged period of time.

Only he was wrong, he wasn't the first being. Someone else had already broken in.

Before a large window, there was a woman standing hushed, with her arms wrapped around her chest. Her head was tilted slightly down and she was staring at nothingness with her large, dark eyes. The sun's rays that were peering in through the window were glistening on her raven curls, making her silken hair give off a slight blue hue.

_''She's hurting Harry,''_ Luna's voice revolved into his attention.

'She should be,' Harry mentally grumbled, as an image of Sirius falling through the veil began to whirl through his mind, around and around, until his hands began to turn into fists. Far too much in rage, he didn't notice when she began to turn around from the window. Her lips parted faintly open.

Dark and green eyes interlocked.

Harry took a few steps back, and a knight from one of the portraits shrieked: "It has surely happened!"

Minutes passed. "It's you," Bellatrix hissed, her eyebrows crunching, but her voice did not carry its usual scorn.

"So it is," Harry slurred back.

There was hushed, cold silence between them for moments until she whispered, "What are you doing here?"

'Looking for you,' he thought, inadvertently. They had been playing a game of cat and mouse ever since they had arrived at Hogwarts.

Bellatrix huffed in and turned her attention away from him, her hair swaying as her heels tapped against the ground. She haughtily began to walk, moving into one of the four doors in the corridor. Only the door remained open, her feet stopped in their tracks. From the portraits, a knight chuckled. Harry wrinkled his eyebrows, both in anger and confusion, and began to walk forwards.

Dust had still not settled down. The door had been locked for ages, if not centuries. Bellatrix's hands were wrapped around the handle, her eyes enlarged, as she perceived the room before her. She felt a presence behind her, a warm body emitting heat, as it pressed to her left and tried to peer in as well. Far too startled by the sight before her, she cared not for Harry's form pressing onto hers.

Within the room, there was darkness, but one object sparkled.

A chest-box.

Slow footsteps by two pairs of feet were taken forth. Both of their chests rising and deflating – their eyes curious as they scanned the object. It was made out of pure gold; there were engravings on it, made in the language of wizards of yore, and odd symbols too. Harry's hands began to move forwards, yearning to touch the glimmering surface of the chest-box when Bellatrix's hand clutched his tightly, halting it from reaching the object's surface. The touch startled him, and he snatched his hand away from hers. "Don't touch it," she snarled, her back slightly bent, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders, hiding most of her face.

Harry took a few steps back, and observed the enigmatic object. It was placed atop a wooden stool in a dreary room, and the door to the room hadn't been locked. "What is it?" Harry inquired.

Bellatrix tensed, her eyes turning furious for a brief second. "Does it seem like I know?" she hissed.

The door suddenly swung shut.

Harry jumped while Bellatrix stiffened and erected from her bent position, her hair flinging around. She viewed the now closed door, and then took in a small breath, as she began to move towards it. Harry watched intently as her hand clasped the doorknob, twirling it around, but within seconds, she tried to jam the door free with her shoulder blades. Growling, her hands soon entered the sides of her robe, as she commenced to look for her wand, only they were empty once she removed them from the pockets of her robe. Harry perceived her gulp slightly as she turned around. "Your wand, Potter," she said, deliberately not enlightening him on why she wasn't in possession of hers.

Harry handed over his wand to her. She placed its tip against the door's keyhole. "Alohomora," she whispered. "Alohomora," she whispered again. The lock did not click open. "ALOHOMORA!" Bellatrix roared. Instantly, Harry grabbed his wand out of her hold, terrified that in her spout of fury she would break it. She had already destroyed his wand once. A second time, and he was sure he would break her.

He placed the tip of the wand against the doorknob while soon hearing a commotion behind him. "Alohomora," he whispered. He did not hear a click. After many tries, he huffed in and turned around, viewing Bellatrix who was now thumping her fists against the four aged brick walls in their surroundings, trying to look for any hidden exits.

Then Harry suddenly noticed one; beneath the wooden stool was an opening. "_There_!" he yelled, pointing at the exit beneath the stool with his wand, making her swiftly turn around from the wall she was slamming her fists against, her hands abruptly falling to her sides.

Bellatrix silently stared at the opening beneath the wooden stool, and started to tread towards it. She tried to push it aside, but it remained fixed to the ground. Hissing, she then kicked the wooden stool several times, but soon slumped down to the ground in defeat. "If it wasn't for you," she groused, "I wouldn't have opened the door to – " she paused, looking at their surroundings, "wherever the hell we are right now."

Harry ignored her and walked towards the wooden stool, about to touch the chest-box. "Don't!" Bellatrix called. "It could be cursed … there could be a trap, you fool!"

It was too late.

The walls around them began to shake.

Harry's hands held the chest-box while the ceiling began to crumble, and tumble down upon them. Bellatrix pounced towards Harry, and smacked him outright with her fists. As Harry plunged down to the ground, the chest-box fell from his hands, rolling against the ground. "Bloody idiot!" she hissed, now lying atop him, her fists flying across his face and chest. "You idiot!" she repeated while the walls were crashing down upon them. Harry quickly pushed her away and grabbed the chest-box. Bellatrix flung towards him once more, but he grabbed her by the waist.

"Stay put," he bellowed, releasing Bellatrix. As Bellatrix toppled to the ground to his side by the sudden release, Harry kicked the stool, and it alarmingly moved once the chest-box was no longer placed above it. Bellatrix stared open-mouthed at him as he unbolted the opening; a small set of stairs revealed beneath it.

Turning his attention to an astonished Bellatrix, Harry grabbed her by her wrist and pushed her down the stairs, then plunging himself in as well, all while the corridor and room continued to tumble into nothingness, the armour and portraits shattering.

Minutes later, and they could still feel the ground slightly shaking as they stormed side-by-side as far as they could, until the floor was stilled and they arrived at a familiar, quiet area at Hogwarts. Bellatrix slumped down against a wall, sitting down, and brushing her hands against her knees. Meanwhile, Harry glared at the chest-box with open eyes. "We better hide it somewhere," Bellatrix commented through her panting; both had completely forgotten their respective attitudes towards each other as adrenaline rushed through their veins.

He hastily nodded, tossing the chest-box towards her. She winced as it hit her breasts and then landed in her lap. Growling, she lifted the object off her lap, gazing at it intently while a wizard in a portrait above her commented, "First period classes have already begun." But they both took no note of the wizard's announcement.

Soon, she rose up from the ground with the chest-box held tightly in her hands, and began to walk forwards. "Where do you think you're going?!" Harry called.

Her black hair swayed as she turned around to face him. A faint chuckle left her lips while she viewed the bruises on his cheeks, but she didn't respond to his query. Turning back around, one of her heels suddenly broke, and it was Harry's time to snicker, triggering her to growl in ire. "Fuck you, Potter," she spat.

When she began to walk again, she noticed her foot had sprained, but nonetheless persisted to walk onwards, limping as she headed towards her destination – her chamber, knowing fully well Harry was trailing her, as usual.

Once in her chamber, her back was reclining against her headboard, as she inspected her foot. Meanwhile, Harry glared at the chest-box, inspecting every inch of the locked mysterious box. His fingers brushed against the edge of the keyhole, as he pondered over what it could contain within. "Do you know what these symbols denote?" he then inquired, his eyes fixated on the peculiar symbols etched into the gold exterior.

"Yes, why of course I know, Pottykins," Bellatrix said in a melodramatic sweet voice.

"How? What is this—"

"I was being sarcastic, you git!"

Harry sighed outwards, and then threw his wand at her. She grabbed it, casting a healing charm over her foot. The muscles there tightened for a brief second, the pain escalating ten-folds, before it completely vanished. She let out a breath of relief after wriggling her foot around, and being assured that it was completely healed. Revolving her attention to Harry, she pointed his wand at his face, and was about to mutter a healing charm when she decided to leave the bruises on his cheeks. She flung the wand at him, and announced, "I have a class to attend," while sliding off her soft, satin bed sheets.

Only, she had to retrieve her wand first – _her_ wand – Alice's wand. It had befallen on her that it may have not chosen her – she may have won it. Chucking the thought away, she ordered, "Get out of my chamber, Potter!" as she sauntered towards her chamber's door.

Harry's hands began to tremble in rage, but he somewhat managed to keep his calm. Turning his attention to her cherry-wood desk, he decided it was safer to keep the chest-box here, in her room rather than his dorm – he sniggered at his thought: He was handing it over to Bellatrix for safekeeping, he had surely turned bloody insane!

As Bellatrix flung the door to her chamber open, she didn't observe or hear Harry taking two steps away in alarm after opening one of her desk's drawers.

Keeping in a gasp as to not draw Bellatrix's attention, his emerald eyes stared solemnly at a red diary. Silently, his hand slipped into the drawer, clutched the small leather-bound book, and then hastily casted a shrinking charm on it. Upon hiding it in one of the pockets of his Gryffindor robe, he heard Bellatrix roar from the threshold of her chamber, "I said get out, Potter!" Dropping the chest-box in the drawer where the diary had been, Harry turned around. A faint, wicked smile flashed across his face as he followed her command, sauntering towards her chamber's door – while feeling the firm edges of the diary nudge his hip with each step he took forwards.

Soon, he would perhaps find out why she had desired to be rid of her life... but perchance it wasn't an answer he was ready for.

Suspicious, Bellatrix's eyes followed him as he walked past her chamber's door; her dark pools shimmering with questions at the odd smirk plastered on his face. A distant cry of a child losing his parents suddenly filled her mind, making her slightly flinch. Hastily, she turned away from him, as the bell began to ring, signifying that the break between period one and two had finished, and classes had begun.

Meanwhile, a knot formed in Harry's abdomen as he realized he had missed Snape's class. 'Shit,' he thought while marching through another hallway, taking a different route than her to his class, as to not arouse suspicion amongst any onlookers and moreover Hermione if he arrived tardy to Potions, at the exact same moment as Bellatrix Black.

* * *

_Author's Note: I'm so terribly sorry for the very late update! I had written and rewritten this chapter several times, and had decided that the previous ones were quite a bore. Also, I had decided on plotting this story, but I realized I'm a terrible plotter, and that I write better on whim. But I do have a vague idea of where I want to head with this story! Also, I looked through this chapter just once or twice for any errors. And I've written a few fragmented sentences in some of the paragraphs on purpose. _

_Anyway, again – I'm so sorry! Feedback is really appreciated. And I hope you all are doing well! :) _


	13. Equal in Sin

_Note (June 15, 2013): Exams are hitting me from front and back right now. I have no time to write. Will be updating after my exams are done! _

**Chapter 13: Equal in Sin **

During first period, a most peculiar event had occurred: The grounds and walls had slightly vibrated as though an earthquake had hit, but the vibrations were not unanimous in strength, for certain areas had shaken more than others – some pupils, in fact, hadn't felt the ground tremble at all.

And throughout this whole episode, Harry had not been seen.

Ron was silent by Hermione's side. A package that had arrived through Owl Post this morning was in his hands, but it was addressed to Harry though it had been sent by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. As they both trekked through the cold hallway within the dungeon to their shared destination, trying thoughts regarding their absent friend continued to grow in their minds. "Really, Harry's fine," Ron whispered more to himself than to Hermione. Meanwhile, the commotion of feet thundering against the damp floors of the dungeon continue to grow in breadth—more pupils had arrived to one of the lowest story at Hogwarts for their class; a class to be instructed by a certain notorious witch named Bellatrix Black.

The large, medieval oak door loomed closer. Their feet stilled against the ground as they reached the entrance of their potions class. Hermione's brows then furrowed as she observed the unopened door, she was uncertain as to whether she should open it or not.

Somewhere from behind, a Gryffindor muttered bitterly, "She must be operating on Death Eater Standard Time," and the horrible witticism elicited a few strained chuckles from some Gryffindor students. However, the Slytherins who stood on the opposite side, meters away from the Gryffindors as though they'd catch a revolting disease if they were too near the pupils boding red and gold ties, remained silent and looked more than vexed. For them, Bellatrix was now no more than a bloodtraitor. On the other hand, members of the other houses were more skeptical of where the raven-haired witch's alliances rested, especially Ron and Hermione—_especially_ Hermione.

The precipitous, wild-haired, young female could only be wary of the infamous witch after all; in cold blood, Bellatrix had murdered her best friend's godfather—a man Hermione knew Harry had grown attached to, had begun to see as family, the closest link he could have to a father. And that small thread of happiness Harry had finally attained in his life, the witch with raven ringlets had stolen. Hermione sighed as she continued to stare at the door, and wondered how she would be able to persist being taught for more than an hour for a year by _her_… while her blood curdled and boiled, then she thought of how Harry could withstand this predicament. Upon gazing at Ron, she knew he shared the same thoughts, for his lips were thinned, the veins on the skin of his pale neck were displaying.

Dumbledore was surely insane.

Insane to have given _her_ a post at Hogwarts.

Hermione had always trusted the elderly headmaster's decisions, but she was wary of this one… angered by this one, as much as she loathed admitting it. Moreover, she was sure the reason Harry was acting so strange as of late was due to him coming to terms, in his own peculiar way, with the decision the headmaster had taken. Neville was dealing with it in another manner—the round-faced adolescent had turned numb… somewhat dazed and deadened. He had said his grandmother had been planning on taking him out of Hogwarts, but he had chosen to remain, and when asked why, he had avowed firmly it was because he was not a coward, and that he would have to deal with it.

As for how he would deal with it, Hermione did not know.

Nevertheless, although Dumbledore's deed was a controversial one, very few parents had opted to remove their children from the school, for Hogwarts was still viewed as the most prestigious school in all of Europe owing to its past glories and colorful history.

Minutes had now passed by. The atmosphere was tense, not to mention cold due to the below-ground level of the floor. "… Perhaps, she's waiting inside, and we're supposed to open the door?" Hermione mumbled to Ron who stood rigidly by her side with the package still in hand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, _Granger_," an arrogant and proud voice warned.

Instantly, Hermione whirled to where it had issued: Between Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini was a sleek-haired, pointed-face male staring at her with his usual scornful smirk. Ron's nostrils flared, for any move towards Hermione by the blond, the ginger deemed as a threat.

After briefly contemplating whether Draco had anything to do with Harry's disappearance, Hermione turned back towards the door, ignoring Draco. She was about to put her hand on the doorknob when she suddenly heard the clicks and clacks of what seemed to be heels hitting the damp floors of the dungeon. Hermione wondered which female pupil was was sporting heels, as it was against the rules at Hogwarts to wear them unless there was an event of some sorts. Certainly, the young female was taking a risk, as she would be met with Minerva's stern lectures regarding brazen behavior. Then, a thought suddenly ascended into her observant and sharp mind: The rule did not fall on the professors, though none selected to wear them—as quite frankly, all the female professors at Hogwarts were old—except for the newest addition to the staff, whom had clearly shown yesterday while strutting through the Great Hall that she liked to wear tasteful and _slightly _promiscuous garments when not garbed in her withered, black Death Eater robes…

She let out a faint gasp.

_Bellatrix Black._

But alas, Hermione had realized too late that the female sporting the heels was the aforementioned woman.

There was silence, shared by both Gryffindors and Slytherins, and the hair on Hermione's neck had unfixed as soon as she had heard the clicks and clacks of the raven-haired woman's heels, as though her subconscious had already deciphered the cause of the noise.

Perhaps it had.

Her hand was hovering just above the glimmering golden doorknob, trembling just slightly, and she despised her body for the way it was reacting. Her hand dropped to her side, she took a step back and glanced for a beat at Ron, shared a look that expressed 'Why didn't you tell me?' with him, before turning her face upwards to view the lean though curvaceous woman who was nearly as tall as Ron, but not quite.

She felt the burning stares of both Slytherins and Gryffindors as she met eyes that were hard, black, shiny and flinty like the mineral obsidian. However, she didn't notice when those seemingly nonchalant eyes travelled for just a quarter of a second towards her back, where Draco stood with his group—rigidly and cold, as poise as ever—just like his mother.

Always trying to be cool and collected.

Bellatrix leaned onto the oak door, while her moist surroundings had caused her ringlets to claim their wilder side. Her hand clasped the doorknob as she tilted her head, and regarded the bushy haired younger woman. The girl, she had seen her before in the Department of Mysteries alongside the Weasley, who stood a few meters away to her right.

They were Potter's little friends.

And the girl appeared frightened—Bellatrix remembered she had looked so in the Department of Mysteries as well, but she had managed to hang onto any shard of courage she could find, so that she could live up to the name of being Harry Potter's best friend—and a Gryffindor.

'Imprudent Gryffindors,' Bellatrix mused. Sirius and his reckless friends would always throw their lives at the face of danger. And ironically, Bellatrix was unaware she was mocking the same house that the Sorting Hat had first decided to place her in.

"_Ms_..?" she began, while staring fixedly into the younger woman's eyes with her callous ones. Bellatrix very well knew the name of the girl—for some reason she knew the names of Harry's two friends. Nevertheless, she feigned she didn't for effect.

"Granger," Hermione replied stiffly. "Hermione Granger."

"_Well_ _Granger, _did I ask you to open the door to _my _classroom?"

"No," Hermione replied then added, "Professor," with a hiss when Bellatrix lifted one of her elegant brows.

"Then, _Ms_. _Granger, _would you care to inform me as to why I beheld you placing your," _filthy, _"hand on this very doorknob?"

Hermione remained still and did not reply, knowing her muteness was the reaction Bellatrix desired. She continued to stare at the raven-haired witch who was leaning onto the door comfortably. Bellatrix was different than her sister. Narcissa was ice while Bellatrix was fire, though for societal norms Bellatrix tried best to withhold to manners that had been instilled into her mind in her formal years.

She tried to be ice, but fire burned just beneath the surface.

The older witch smirked, for she had gained what she desired. Her slender hand twirled the doorknob, and she shifted to the side, letting around the twenty or so pupils—all mum and trembling under her gaze—inside. However, when Draco was passing by, trying to evade her gaze, she pressed her finger lightly on his shoulder, and that was enough to stop him in his tracks. "You will stay after class," she whispered coolly.

Draco's lips curled, a frown played on his face, then he marched onwards, not uttering a word, and seated himself between Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. Meanwhile, the class had watched the little interaction between them, and they now stared at Draco then Bellatrix curiously, viewed the sardonic smirk that gamboled on the raven-haired witch's face, but none knew why it was there.

Bellatrix had frankly found Draco's response quite… humorous.

_That buffoon, _she thought as she reached the front board, her heels resuming to click and clack from uneven stone floors to dusty marble ones.

They were all seated—both Gryffindors and Slytherins—with their textbooks ready, and five senses on alert. Upon intertwining her arms around her chest, as it was a bit chilly, Bellatrix noted that the eyes of a few males strayed and travelled down to the slight shadow that now danced around the neckline of her robe. She smirked at the effect she had on them—on the Weasley boy whose cheeks were tinged red with fury and yet, paradoxically his eyes had skidded there. _Mmm, adolescent boys_…

They persisted to wait, and she persisted to let the silence engulf their surroundings. Introductions, after all, left lasting effects, and she didn't want hers to be forgotten.

She then cleared her throat. Icy eyes looked around, stole parts of their souls like a dementor. After a slight upturn of her plump lips, her mellifluous voice began to echo through the room, all ears listened: "Hello _little _ones," she said, though the students within the class most certainly were not so little—but 'little', that's how she wanted to make them feel.

Little, diminutive nothings.

"As you may have already heard last evening, I will be teaching you all the art of potion making," she announced, and did not care to inform them of her name, for without a doubt, they were all already well informed of her name… and more. "There will be very little foolish wand waving in this class. Brewing potions calls for patience and one's intuition, and it is more of an art—"

_Knock… Knock…Knock _

Instantly, students all gave sideway glances to the peers whom sat adjacent to them. Hermione's lips pursed as she gazed at Ron. They both conversed through their eyes. 'It's Harry,' they both shared the thought that had sparked within their minds the moment the first thud against the door had occurred.

Upon turning their attention back at their professor, Hermione's fingers curled, brows twitched—she thought of what Harry had told her earlier this morning while eating breakfast at the Great Hall: He had said he had detention with Bellatrix after school. Hermione hadn't believed him, of course, for he had stuttered while speaking –and stuttering, sweating, looking uncomfortable were all signs that hinted at a lie.

However, if Harry had already gotten into trouble with her, then he would now be in even deeper shit.

And Hermione barely, if ever, cursed, as it was crass and showed an infantile vocabulary. Nonetheless, as the knocking persisted, all she could think of was one particular word: '_ShitShitShitShit.'_

Meanwhile, Bellatrix Black stood still, her lips were parted open, evidence of how she had been interjected while speaking. Finely shaped brows were tilted, her face expressing the calm before the storm. Slender fingers curled and turned into fists while she smirked at the class. "Let us see this audacious individual, shall we?" Her robe then bellowed behind her, her heels recommenced to click and clack against the floor. She stilled before the oak door, her lips curled upwards. Oh—she knew very well who was behind the door.

_Potter_.

She would very much enjoy making a fool out of him before the class.

Her slender fingers curled around the doorknob, her lips upturned, and she swung the oak door open in one mighty pull. Unfortunately, the force of the pull caused her to lose her balance, she staggered backwards. Instantaneously, a hand firmly wrapped around her wrist—her bruised wrist, and it provoked a slight wince.

Pulling her hand out of the tight grasp, she glanced upwards and met emerald eyes, at lips turned upwards in a cutting smirk.

Bellatrix was uncollected, dazed, and enraged while feeling his fingers around her wrist (though they were no longer there). She parted her mouth open while her untouched hand inadvertently rubbed the wrist of the other one, but a bitter and scathing comment did not come through her plump lips. Instead, a small smirk was all she produced before she muttered, "I see _someone _has already tried to give you an antidote in hopes of curing you of your _insolence_."

Harry raised a brow while a few Slytherins chuckled—though they loathed themselves for doing so, as Bellatrix in their eyes was, as mentioned before, nothing more than a bloodtraitor. Nevertheless, they couldn't help but resist chuckling at any situation that revealed Harry as the fool they regarded him as.

Lips half open, Harry pondered of what she had meant, and when his eyes travelled at his reflection that displayed through one of the crystal vases atop a cupboard, he instantly comprehended what Bellatrix had insinuated…

_Someone _as in _her. _

The bruises—the marks of her fists on his cheeks, was what Harry perceived within the crystal vase.

_Fucking hell… _he thought. The bruises were fresh, and they would hurt like the dickens by tomorrow.

Furrowing his brows, he marched up to his seat—an empty seat Hermione had saved for him. Upon sliding into it, his lips trembled in ire, his hands shaking—she hadn't told him on purpose. As he continued to glower, Bellatrix wore a pleased smirk over her face as she sauntered back towards the front-board.

"As I was saying, before Potter decided to arrive late to class _ostentatiously_," she began, then a misplaced curl fell over an eye, she blew at it, but it chose to be tenacious, and so her slender hand pulled it back. Male eyes observed her beauty bone that had revealed marginally when she had pulled her hair behind her ear. "As I was saying," she started once more, "potions is an art. It requires patience, a keen surveillance," and while Bellatrix continued to speak in her suave voice, a certain female pupil's brows were crumpled in contemplation.

Something was… _odd_.

Hermione, as her other peers, was bewildered by what she had perceived: Harry had unconsciously held Bellatrix's wrist to save her from toppling over, and hitting the floor.

It seemed, of course, to be an action elicited by impulse.

Yet… still, something felt odd.

Quickly, she looked at Harry, then grasped his attention by tapping her desk with her fingers when Bellatrix was busy writing on the board. Harry smiled back, his lips were strained though, as he knew she was wondering where he had been first period—and moreover, of how he had gotten the bruises on his face.

Hermione did not return the smile. "You have detention with Snape for a week," she whispered, almost hissed, and immediately Harry's face turned pale. _Good, _she thought, while feeling more than frustrated at herself for not comprehending what in Merlin's name was going on, and at Harry for keeping things hidden, and being downright dishonest to her face.

**oOo **

Draco was very much like his mother.

Bellatrix had been more than angry when that realization had hit her whilst speaking to Draco after the bell had rung, signifying that the tormenting hour with the vile young creatures had come to a conclusion.

"You will tell me," she had said, it had been more of a command. Onyx orbs had penetrated grey ones, but though the male had writhed just slightly, showing his fall provoked from her piercing gaze, he had managed to hold onto some pillar, and thus hadn't crashed.

She breathed out jaggedly. The blond stood erect before her, his eyes cold and icy as he stared at his aunt. She observed his features, his set jaws, the determination in his eyes, how he believed he would not fail whatever the Dark Lord had entrusted him to do_._ The particles in the dust filled room danced in the atmosphere, as she continued to stare into his grey pools, while thinking of Narcissa's blue ones, and how hers had so much colour, and his were so much paler in comparison.

Her brows furrowed, focused as she began to use another method to discern what her nephew was concealing from her. She grasped at the threads that had been knotted firmly together, concealing a mind, memories, a soul. However, she could not drill in a hole, a view to see what was within. A frown danced partially on her face before it was replaced by a smirk: Bellatrix had always smirked. "You've been taught Occlumency by Severus, haven't you?" she inquired.

Draco remained silent. Her lips retained the smirk. Oh, she had other ways of gaining what she sought. "Well then... Snivellus has done a very good job," she stated, as she very well knew Draco was aware that she was accomplished at both Legillimency and its opposite. She then patted his shoulders, and he flinched— a response she had be been expecting and devoured. "Go now, fool," she hissed, and he did not utter a word, as he bended his head, averted her gaze, and began to march arrogantly out of the room, appearing much like Narcissa in her temper tantrums.

Oh fuck. Bloody hell.

And that's when it had occurred, that was when the sudden epiphany had hit: Draco was very much like his mother.

It had made it even harder, harder to deal with what was set in stone for him.

No – not in stone.

She despised the little imp, as she sometimes despised Narcissa. A damaged, broken thing she was, but she was still a Black, and her loyalties would always remain with her family first. Family, it was all that mattered, the only fibers in a shattered word that should never be cut.

But they had been cut, long ago.

Andromeda.

She flinched, chucked her thought away, and her hands turned into fists, knuckles turned white, as she pushed open the large oak door (not before remembering emerald eyes and how... he had stood before her) and then marched forwards, beginning her pursuit in finding a certain professor she had thought of meeting today anyhow.

**oOo**

Filch had been instructed by Professor Snape to make Harry scrub the floors and polish all the suits of armor in the Armour Gallery—without the use of his wand, of course.

Shallow evening sunrays seeped into the corridor. The floors, no matter how hard Harry scrubbed, seemed to never be free of dust. Groaning, Harry dumped the wet cloth into the basket, and decided to have a minute's break. For hours, everyday after school, he would be spending his time here, in this wretched corridor.

Harry took in a sigh while he leaned against a wall, and studied the tips of his fingers, noticing they had been wrinkled from being soaked and wet. Upon brushing his sweat-lathered hair away from his forehead, he crawled back towards the bucket, took the cloth out, and began scrubbing the ground with it again.

After he was sure the ground was free of dust and dirt, he erected, put his hand into the arch of his back, and groaned. Oh, he was certainly going to have to endure backaches for a good while. He rotated towards the window, and gazed outside at the Qudditch fields that could be seen from where he stood. The Slytherins were holding their try-outs, and he could perceive a prospective team member writhing under Draco Malfoy's glare. The blond had a lost a few pounds, his face had somewhat sunken. Harry had a vague idea of why his appearance had turned so disheveled: The Dark Mark surely imprinted on his arm had something to do with it.

"Boy! You must still wash the armors," Harry heard Flich's grating voice.

Huffing, he turned around, and marched towards the armors. The diary he had found in Bellatrix's room nudged his thigh while he continued to contemplate over the odd occurrences today. What was Draco doing with Yaxley? And moreover, why had Bellatrix seemed so worried over him? Draco, being Lucius Malfoy's son, understandably would be next in line for having the mark imprinted on his arm, so then why had Bellatrix seemed so… dumbfounded?

Harry's brows furrowed, as he then thought of the peculiar chest-box he and Bellatrix had stumbled on in the strange hallway. The chest-box had odd runes engraved on it, and one rune that had stood out to him was an oval with four spiral lines beneath it. As he polished the armors, Harry also distinguished the armors within that hallway were older than the ones in this one. These ones were old, yes, but the ones there—or the ones that _had_ been there, since the corridor was no more— were older, for they had been less sophisticated; they had been made of bronze while these ones were built out of minerals that could guard one more so from an offensive.

Once he finished shining the last piece of armor—a helmet, he called for Filch, and the caretaker began to inspect the corridors while his disagreeable cat tottered behind him.

"Professor Snape wishes for your presence in his office, _Potter_," Filch growled after he rubbed a shield with his scrawny finger, and held the finger up to his bulging eyes to search for any dust particles.

Harry's pulse pounded loudly in his ears.

Filch turned around from him with a pleased grin on his face, triggered by Harry's blanched face. The caretaker then started to fade into the shadows when he made his way into another corridor. His balding scalp was soon no longer in view and nor was his cat—gratefully.

Snape had preferred his previous office in the dungeons, thus Harry had to make his way down to the lowest floor again for the second time today. He despised this story for its coldness, dark lighting, and damp walls. It yelled darkness and gloominess; it yelled Severus Snape and Salazar Slytherin.

The torches on the sides of the walls were on the only sources of light in the dungeons, and though the flames never died, they always seemed as though they would. The door to Severus Snape's office was shut, and Harry's hand trembled slightly as it rose from his side. His hand turned into a fist, and he began to lightly knock on the door. However, the door remained unanswered, and so his fist thumped again on the old wood, this time with greater force, but the door persisted to remain shut. "Professor Snape," he called, but there was no response.

While grumbling, he was uncertain as to whether he should wait or turn around, and head back to the Common Room to start working on his assignments. It had been merely the first day of school, and already he had been bombarded with tons of schoolwork—curse him for taking on N.E.W.T level courses. Bellatrix had proved she could still torture her students without the use of a wand—she had assigned the class to write a ten thousand words report on how potions were not necessarily used for drinking, and the report was due next class. He had cussed in the privacy of his mind when she had a smug smirk on her face after class had ended, but then again, when did she not wear such an expression.

Speaking of Bellatrix, Harry swore he heard her heels clicking and clacking in his mind. _Fucking hell._ He had already supposed he had turned insane when he had handed the chest-box to Bellatrix in trust, and now he was even further confident that he had turned completely crackers.

The click and clacks of her heels continued.

_Merlin_, a therapist was in need, then again, what would he tell them, as they would be a Muggle? Would he say: "Oh, I believe I'm turning insane, as a murdering psychopathic witch in the other world – I mean the wizarding world – has started to mess with my mind."

_Er_, right, he would be confined in a straitjacket immediately.

An unexpected velvety voice echoed from the distance, from a corridor near this one: "_You imbecile!"_ Harry heard a certain woman with raven ringlets, and was instantly relieved to not have been as insane as he had previously deemed himself to be.

Her voice boomed through the corridors again, "_Oh, _don't you dare turn away from me, _Snivellus_. You let _him _rot for decades in Azkaban, merely to get back at him for the juvenile pranks you had been a victim of years ago—"

"_Shhh_, Bella dear. This man you speak of, you must recall you have killed. My sin, I daresay, is _nothing_ compared to yours," Snape's cool voice reverberated in response.

An icy silence filled the dungeon.

"You… bastard," Bellatrix finally found her voice, hissing.

"Is that all you have to say, _dear_? Now, I wish to speak to Potter concerning his absence during my class. Word has come you were with him this morning? How _peculiar. _Now, are you done with your little outburst, for as mentioned, I have other matters I must attend to."

There was a dry chuckle. Bellatrix had surely gathered an acrimonious remark, one that would certainly burn down Snape. "Oh, Severus, _dear, _whilst speaking to Potter, you should also inform him as to how you're responsible for his orphaned state."

Snape did not unearth a decent comeback.

"_Hmm_, Severus, you look dumbfounded. Have I made you _recall_ something— a _certain _memory? Perhaps, I _daresay_, we are equal in sin? Yet, at least the world knows of mine… I wear my wrongs on my sleeves, but you – you prance around as though you've got a clean slate. And in a few moments, you'll try to intimidate the boy you've orphaned, because James' death was not enough for you." She bitterly laughed again. "You see – you show yourself as the _fool_ you are in trying to make me feel shamefaced… a _duplicitous_ fool, as you too have stolen lives. Therefore, you are certainly not one to point your _bloody_ fingers at me while wearing a conceited smirk on your filthy face." Silence skipped along the corridors before her flowing voice echoed through them again. "Now, _yes_, you are excused – for now. The matter concerning Draco will still be attended to. You _will _tell me of what he has been assigned to do – or I shall tell a certain boy of what you have done."

However, it was too late. The particular young male had already found out.

Harry's hands had turned to fist, his jaws had clenched, while he thought of how many times he had been lied to by Dumbledore – by the one man Harry had always been positive would tell him nothing but the truth.

When Snape arrived before his office, the emerald-eyed male wasn't waiting for him, for his feet were thundering against marble floors, and he was running madly through the third floor; and soon, he arrived before a certain gargoyle.

He was wheezing, as he pounded his fists against it while uttering all the passwords that had been given to him before. The memory of the death of his parents coiled itself around his heart, like a rope it fastened and began clench at it. He breathed raggedly, while his fists continued to pound down against the stone of the gargoyle. "Fucking open," he barked and barked while night began to eat away the evening.

"Open… _fucking_ open," he tiredly bawled.

"Harry? … _Harry_?!" McGonagall's concerned voice suddenly ushered into his surroundings.

The elderly female professor quickly neared him, wrapped an arm around him and managed to pull him away from the gargoyle. "Did you also know?" Harry hissed from behind, while she whispered, "Tapeworm," and the gargoyle let the hidden office into view. Turning around to Harry, she raised a brow, completely flabbergasted as he stormed into the headmaster's office.

"Minerva, if you may," Dumbledore said from his desk.

Professor McGonagall hastily nodded, stepped back and turned away from the office, while Harry began to thrash about, not knowing how to start – what to say – what to do.

"YOU _LIED_ TO ME!" Harry finally found his voice, screaming, while the gargoyle resumed to conceal Dumbledore's office, and a worried Professor McGonagall began to march to hers.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm so sorry for updating this after a few months. I have more than forty hours of school a week, plus I've been volunteering at a few places, and so I'm very short on time. As mentioned before, I don't plan on deserting this story, but sometimes life gets in the way. Exams are coming up, but I'll try my best to write the upcoming chapters as soon as I can, and when creativity hits. Anyhow, I will stop rambling now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you have anything to say, don't hesitate to leave a review. Hope you all have been doing well - and again, I'm so so sorry!


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